IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


^ 

-^t^ 


1.0 


1.1 


|25 


1^128  |25 
■^  Uii  12.2 
2.0 


lb 


1.4 


||.6 


^     M 


y 


yS 


Hiotogr^hic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WiST  MAIN  STRUT 

WIBSTH.N.Y.  14SS0 

;7>«!  •73-4S03 


^ 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


T«chnical  and  Bibliographic  Notaa/Notas  tachnlquaa  at  bibllographiquaa 


Tha  Inatituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  avallabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibllographically  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  In  tha 
raproductlon.  or  which  may  aignificantly  changa 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  baiow. 


D 


D 
D 


D 


D 


Coiourad  covers/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 


[~~1   Covars  damagad/ 


Couvartura  andommagAa 

Covars  rastorad  and/or  lamlnatad/ 
Couvartura  rastaurAa  at/ou  palllculia 

Covar  titia  missing/ 

La  titra  da  couvartura  manqua 

Coiourad  maps/ 

Cartas  gAographiquas  an  coulaur 

Coiourad  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  blaua  ou  noira) 


I      I   Coiourad  platas  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planchas  at/ou  illustrations  an  coulaur 


Bound  with  othar  matarial/ 
Rali4  avac  d'autras  documents 


Tight  binding  may  causa  shadows  or  distortion 
along  intarior  margin/ 

La  raliura  sarrAe  paut  causar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
distortion  la  long  da  la  marga  intiriaura 

Blank  laavas  addad  during  rastoration  may 
appaar  within  tha  taxt.  Whanavar  possibia,  thasa 
hava  baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II  sa  paut  qua  cartainas  pagas  blanches  ajoutias 
lors  d'una  rastauration  apparaissant  dans  la  taxta, 
mais,  lorsqua  caia  Atait  possibia,  cas  pagas  n'ont 
pas  4t4  fiimias. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmantalras: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  la  maiileur  exemplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  4t4  poaaibia  da  aa  procurer.  Lea  dttaiia 
da  cat  exemplaira  qui  aont  paut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mithoda  normale  de  filmege 
aont  indiqute  ci-daaaoua. 


r~~\   Coloured  pages/ 


D 


This  item  is  filmed  at  tha  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ca  document  est  film*  au  taux  da  reduction  indiqui  ci-dessous. 


Pagea  de  couleur 

Pagas  damaged/ 
Pegea  andommegAea 

Pagas  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurAea  at/ou  paliiculAes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Peges  dAcolories,  tachatiea  ou  piquAas 

Pagas  detached/ 
Peges  dAtachAas 

Showthroughy 
Transparence 

Quelity  of  prin 

Quallt*  InAgaia  de  I'lmpression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  metAriel  supplAmentaire 

Only  edition  evailable/ 
Seule  Mition  disponlble 


r~n  Pagas  damaged/ 

I — I  Pagas  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

Fyj  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

r~n  Pagas  detached/ 

fyj  Showthrough/ 

I     I  Quelity  of  print  verles/ 

I     I  Includes  supplementary  materiel/ 

I — I  Only  edition  evailable/ 


T 
t 


T 

P 
o 
f 


C 
b 

tl 
s 
o 

fi 

s 
o 


T 

s 
T 

VI 

N 
d 
ei 
b< 
ri( 
re 
m 


Pagas  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  heve  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Lea  pages  totalament  ou  pertiellement 
obscurcies  per  un  feuillet  d'arrata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  AtA  flimAes  i  nouveau  de  fa^on  k 
obtanir  la  mailleure  imege  possible. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

I 

I  du 
lodifiar 
r  una 
Image 


The  copy  filmed  here  haa  been  reproduced  thanka 
to  the  generoaity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  imagea  appearing  here  are  the  beat  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibifity 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illuatrated  imprea- 
aion,  or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
ahall  contain  the  symbol  —^-(meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratioa.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framea  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exempiaire  film*  fut  reproduit  grflce  A  la 
g^nAroaitt  da: 

BibliothAque  nationale  du  Canada 


Las  images  suivantes  ont  6t4  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet«  de  l'exempiaire  film*,  et  en 
conformity  avec  lea  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Lea  exemplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  eat  ImprimAe  sont  filmAs  en  commen^ant 
par  le  premier  plat  at  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreaaion  ou  d'illustration,  aoit  par  le  second 
plat,  aelon  le  cas.  Tous  las  autres  exemplairaa 
originaux  sont  filmis  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreaaion  ou  d'illuatration  et  an  terminant  par 
la  derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  dea  aymbolea  auivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
darnlAre  imege  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
caa:  le  aymbole  — ^  aignifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
aymbola  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  Atre 
filmte  A  des  taux  de  rMui^tion  diff«rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film*  A  partir 
de  I'angle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  an  bas,  en  pranant  le  nombre 
d'images  ntcessaira.  Les  diagrammes  auivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


rrata 
to 


pelure. 


3 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

t' 


i 


r 


IN    THE    VILLAGE    OF   VIGER 


i 


IN    THE 
VILLAGE  OF  VIGER 


BY 
DUNCAN    CAMPBELL   SCOTT 


BOSTON 

COPELAND   AND    DAY 

MDCCCXCVI 


139163 


f 


ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  THE  ACT  OF 
CONGRESS  IN  THE  YEAR  I  896  BY 
COPELAND  AND  DAY,  IN  THE  OFFICE 
OF  THE  LIBRARIAN  OF  CONGRESS 
AT    WASHINGTON. 


V 


/ 


I 

I 


I 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER 
ELIZABETH    DUNCAN    SCOTT 

Robins  and  bobolinks   bubbling  and  tinkling, 

Shore-larks  alive  there  high  in  the  blue, 
Level  in  the  sunlight    the  rye-field  twinkling, 

The  wind  parts  the    cloud  and  a  star  leaps  through, 
Ferns  at  the  sjjring-head  curling  cool  and  tender, 

Bloodroot  in  the  tangle,   violets  by  the  larch. 
In  the  dusky  evening  the  young  moon  slender. 

Glowing  like  a  crocus  in  the  dells  of  March; 
All  a  world  of  music,  of  laughter,  and  of  lightness, 

Crushed  to  a  diamond,   rounded  to  a  pearl, 
Moulded  to  a  flower  bell,  --cannot  match  the  bright- 
ness 

In  the  darling  beauty  of  one  sweet  girl. 


^^ 


« 


i_ 


I 


/  am  indebted  to  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner^s  Sons 
for  permission  to  reprint  several  of  these  tales. 

D.  C.  S. 


Ji 


"^rrrti 


WHOEVER  has  from  toil  and  stress 
Put  into  ports  of  idleness, 
And  watched  the  gleaming  thistledown 
Wheel  in  the  soft  air  lazily  blown  ; 
Or  leaning  on  the  shady  rail. 
Beneath  the  poplars,  silver  pale. 
Eyed  in  the  shallow  amber  pools 
The  black  perch  voyaging  in  schools  ; 
Or  heard  the  fisherman  outpour 
His  strange  and  questionable  lore. 
While  the  cream-blossomed  basswood-trees 
Boomed  like  an  organ  with  the  bees ; 
Or  by  blind  fancy  held  aloof 
Has  startled  with  prosaic  hoof, 
Beneath  the  willows  in  the  shade. 
The  wooing  of  a  pretty  maid  ; 
And  traced  the  sharp  or  genial  air 
Of  human  nature  everywhere: 
Might  find  perchance  the  wandered  fire. 
Around  St.  Joseph's  sparkling  spire  ; 
And  wearied  with  the  fume  and  strife. 
The  complex  joys  and  ills  of  life. 
Might  for  an  hour  his  worry  staunch. 
In  pleasant  Viger  by  the  Blanche. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

The  Little  Mflliner , -^ 

The  Desjakuins 30 

The  Wooing  of  Monsieur  Cuekkier     .  9 

Sedan -, 

No.  68  PuE  Alfred  de  Musset     ...  63 

The  Boholink 78 

The  Tragedy  of  the  Seigniory    ...  85 

Josephine  Labrosse loi 

The  Pedler u^ 

Paul  Farlotte no 


««■ 


IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER 


^■^*^—        ■■ 


wrm^^i^^gm 


■MP 


IN  THE  VILLAGE  OF  VIGER 

¥ 

THE   LITTLE   MILLLXER. 

IT   was   too  true  that   the  city  was  growing 
rapidly.      As  yet    its   arms  were  not    long 
enough  to  embrace  the  little  village  of  Viger, 
but  before  long  they  would  be,  and  it  was  not  a 
time  that  the  inhabitants  looked  forward  to  with 
any  pleasure.     It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
for  few  places  were  more  pleasant  to    live  in. 
The  houses,  half-hidden  amid  the  trees,   clus- 
tered around  the  slim  steeple  of  St.  Joseph's, 
which  flashed  like  a  naked  poniard  in  the  sun! 
They   were   old,    and    the    village   was    sleepy, 
almost  dozing,  since  the  mill,  behind  the  rise  of 
land,   on    the    Blanche   had   shut  down.     The 
miller  had  died;    and   who  would   trouble  to 
grind  what  little  grist  came  to  the  mill,  when 
flour  was  so  cheap?    But  while  the  beech-groves 
lasted,  and   the  Blanche  continued   to  run,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  any  change  could  come. 
The  change  was  coming,  however,  rapidly  enough. 
Even  now,  on  still  nights,  above  the  noise  of 
the  frogs  in  the  pools,  you  could  hear  the  rum- 


14       IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 


I 


ble  of  the  street -cars  and  the  faint  tinkle  of 
their  bells,  and  when  the  air  was  moist  the 
whole  southern  sky  was  luminous  with  the  re- 
flection of  thousands  of  gas-lamps.  But  when 
the  time  came  for  Viger  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
city  papers  as  one  of  the  outlying  wards,  what  a 
change  there  would  be  !  There  would  be  no 
unfenced  fields,  full  of  little  inequalities  and 
covered  with  short  grass;  there  would  be  no 
deep  pools,  where  the  quarries  had  been,  and 
where  the  boys  pelted  the  frogs ;  there  would 
be  no  more  beech-groves,  where  the  children 
could  gather  nuts ;  and  the  dread  pool,  which 
had  filled  the  shaft  where  old  Daigneau,  years 
ago,  mined  for  gold,  would  cease  to  exist.  But 
in  the  meantime,  the  boys  of  Viger  roamed  over 
the  unclosed  fields  and  pelted  the  frogs,  and 
the  boldest  ventured  to  roll  huge  stones  into 
Daigneau's  pit,  and  only  waited  to  see  the  green 
slime  come  working  up  to  the  surface  before 
scampering  away,  their  flesh  creeping  with  the 
idea  that  it  was  old  Daigneau  himself  who  was 
stirring  up  the  water  in  a  rage. 

New  houses  had  already  commenced  to  spring 
up  in  all  directions,  and  there  was  a  large  influx 
of  the  laboring  population  which  overflows  from 
large  cities.  Even  on  the  main  street  of  Viger, 
on  a  lot  which  had  been  vacant  ever  since  it 
was  a  lot,  the  workmen  had  built  a  foundation. 
After  a  v/hile  it  was  finished,  when  men  from  the 


wmm 


THE   LITTLE   MILLINER. 


15 


trom 
iger, 
ce  it 
;ion. 
the 


city  came  and  put  up  the  oddest  wooden  house 
that  one  could  imagine.  It  was  perfectly  square ; 
there  was  a  window  and  a  door  in  front,  a  win- 
dow at  the  side,  and  a  window  upstairs.  There 
were  many  surmises  as  to  the  probable  occupant 
of  such  a  diminutive  habitation  ;  and  the  widow 
Laroque,  who  made  dresses  and  trimmed  hats, 
and  whose  shop  was  directly  opposite,  and  next 
door  to  the  Post  Office,  suffered  greatly  from 
unsatisfied  curiosity.  No  one  who  looked  like 
the  proprietor  was  ever  seen  near  the  place. 
The  foreman  of  the  laborers  who  were  working 
at  the  house  seemed  to  know  nothing ;  all  that 
he  said,  in  answer  to  questions,  was  :  "  I  have 
my  orders." 

i  At  last  the  house  was  ready ;  it  was  painted 
within  and  without,  and  Madame  Laroque  could 
scarcely  believe  her  eyes  when,  one  morning,  a 
man  came  from  the  city  with  a  small  sign  under 
his  arm  and  nailed  it  above  the  door.  It  bore 
these  words  :  *•  Mademoiselle  Viau,  Milliner." 
"Ah!"  said  Madame  Laroque,  "the  bread  is 
to  be  taken  out  of  my  mouth."  The  next  day 
came  a  load  of  furniture,  —  not  a  very  large 

•  load,  as  there  was  only  a  small  stove,  two  tables, 
a  bedstead,  three  chairs,  a  sort  of  lounge,  and 
two  large  boxes.  The  man  who  brought  the 
things  put  them  in  the  house,  and  locked  the 
door  on  them  when  he  went  away ;  then  noth- 
ing   happened    for    two   weeks,   but   Madame 


■,<J 


II 


1 6      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

Laroque  watched.  Such  a  queer  Httle  house  it 
was,  as  it  stood  there  so  new  in  its  coat  of  gum- 
colored  paint.  It  looked  just  like  a  square 
bandbox  which  some  Titan  had  made  for  his 
wife ;  and  there  seemed  no  doubt  that  if  you 
took  hold  of  the  chimney  and  lifted  the  roof 
off,  you  would  see  the  gigantic  bonnet,  with  its 
strings  and  ribbons,  which  the  Titaness  could 
wear  to  church  on  Sundays. 

Madame  Laroque  wondered  how  Mademoi- 
selle Viau  would  come,  whether  in  a  cab,  with 
her  trunks  and  boxes  piled  around  her,  or  on 
foot,  and  have  her  belongings  on  a  cart.  She 
watched  every  approaching  vehicle  for  two  weeks 
in  vain  ;  but  one  morning  she  saw  that  a  curtain 
had  been  put  up  on  the  window  opposite,  that 
it  was  partly  raised,  and  that  a  geranium  was 
standing  on  the  sill.  For  one  hour  she  never 
took  her  eyes  off  the  door,  and  at  last  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  it  open.  A  trim  little 
person,  not  very  young,  dressed  in  gray,  stepped 
out  on  the  platform  with  her  apron  full  of 
crumbs  and  cast  them  down  for  the  birds. 
Then,  without  looking  around,  she  went  in  and 
closed  the  door.  It  was  Mademoiselle  Viau. 
"The  bird  is  in  its  nest,"  thought  the  old  post- 
master, who  lived  alone  with  his  mother.  All 
that  Madame  Laroque  said  was  :  "  Ah  !  " 

Mademoiselle  Viau  did  not  stir  out  that  day, 
but  on  the  next  she  went  to  the  baker's  and  the 


R. 


THE   LITTLE    MILLINER. 


17 


house  it 
of  gum- 
square 
for  his 
t  if  you 
the  roof 
with  its 
ss  could 

[ademoi- 
:ab,  with 
er,  or  on 
irt.     She 
wo  weeks 
a  curtain 
)site,  that 
lium  was 
;he  never 
,t  had  the 
rim   little 
/,  stepped 
)n    full  of 
:he  birds, 
^nt  in  and 
elle  Viau. 
I  old  post- 
•ther.     All 
1!" 

t  that  day, 
r's  and  the 


m 


butcher's,  and  came  over  the  road  to  Monsieur 
Cuerrier,  the  postmaster,  who  also  kept  a 
grocery. 

'J'hat  evening,  according  to  her  custom, 
Madame  Laroque  called  on  Madame  Cuerrier. 

"  \Vc  have  a  neighbor,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"  She  was  making  purchases  to-day." 

"Yes." 

"  To-morrow  she  will  expect  people  to  make 
purchases." 

"Without  doubt." 

"It  is  very  tormenting,  this,  to  have  these 
irresponsible  girls,  that  no  one  knows  anything 
about,  setting  up  sliops  under  our  very  noses. 
Why  does  she  live  alone?  " 

"  I  did  not  ask  her,"  answered  Cuerrier,  to 
whom  the  question  was  addressed. 

"  You  are  very  cool,  Monsieur  Cuerrier ;  but 
if  it  was  a  young  man  and  a  postmaster,  instead 
of  a  young  woman  and  a  milliner,  you  would 
not  relish  it." 

"There  crm  be  only  one  postmaster,"  said 
Cuerrier. 

"  In  Paris,  where  I  practised  my  art,"  said 
Monsieur  Villeblanc,  who  was  a  retired  hair- 
dresser, "there  were  whole  rows  of  tonsorial 
parlors,  and  every  one  had  enough  to  do." 
Ivladame  Laroque  sniffed,  as  she  always  did  in 
his  presence. 


mmmmmmmm 


18      IN    THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


'<  Did  you  see  her  hat?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  did,  and  it  was  very  nice." 

"  Nice  !  with  the  flowers  all  on  one  side  ? 
I  wouldn't  go  to  St.  Th^rese  with  it  on."  St. 
Thtl'rese  was  the  postmaster's  native  place. 

*' The  girl  has  no  taste,"  she  continued. 

"  Well,  if  she  has  n't,  you  need  n't  be  afraid 
of  her." 

"There  will  be  no  choice  between  you,"  said 
the  retired  hairdresser,  maliciously. 

But  there  was  a  choice  between  them,  and  all 
the  young  girls  of  Viger  chose  Mademoiselle 
Viau.  It  was  said  she  had  such  an  eye ;  she 
would  take  a  hat  and  pin  a  bow  on  here,  and 
loop  a  ribbon  there,  and  cast  a  flower  on  some- 
where else,  all  the  time  surveying  her  work  with 
her  head  on  one  side  and  her  mouth  bristling 
with  pins.  "  There,  how  do  you  like  that  ?  — 
put  it  on  —  no,  it  is  not  becoming  —  wait!" 
and  in  a  trice  the  desired  change  was  made. 
She  had  no  lack  of  work  from  the  first ;  soon 
she  had  too  much  to  do.  At  all  hours  of  the 
day  she  could  be  seen  sitting  at  her  window, 
working,  and  "  she  must  be  making  money 
fast,"  argued  Madame  Laroque,  "  for  she  spends 
nothing."  In  truth,  she  spent  very  little  —  she 
lived  so  plainly.  Three  times  a  week  she  took 
a  fresh  twist  from  the  baker,  once  a  day  the 
milkman  left  a  pint  of  milk,  and  once  every 
week  mademoiselle  herself  stepped  out  to  the 


^R. 


le 

side  ? 

m.' 

'     St. 

Lce 

1 

ed. 

3e 

afraid 

ou, 


>> 


said 


1,  and  all 
emoiselle 


eye 


she 


here,  and 
on  some- 
vork  with 
bristhng 
that  ?  — 
-  wait !  " 
as  made, 
rst ;  soon 
ars  of  the 
r  window, 
g  money 
he  spends 
:tle  —  she 
I  she  took 
L  day  the 
nee  every 
ut  to  the 


THE   LITTLE   MILLINER.  19 

butcher's  and  bought  a  pound  of  steak.     Occa- 
sionally she  mailed  a  letter,  which   she  always 
gave   into   the  hands  of  the   postmaster ;  if  he 
was  not  there  she  asked  for  a  pound  of  tea  or 
something  else  that  she  needed.     She  was  fast 
friends  with   Cuerrier,  but  with  no  one  else,  as 
she  never  received  visitors.     Once  only  did  a 
young  man  call  on  her.     It  was  young  Jourdain, 
the    clerk   in    the    dry-goods    store.       He    had 
knocked  at  the  door  and  was  admitted.     "  Ah  !  " 
saitl   Madame   Laroque,   "  it   is   the  young  men 
who  can  conquer."     But  the  next  moment  Mon- 
sieur Jourdain  came  out,  and,  strangely  enough, 
was   so  bewildered  as   to  forget  to   put  on  his 
hat.     It  was  not   this  young  man  who   could 
conquer. 

**  There  is  something  mysterious  about  that 
young  person,"  said  Madame  Laroque  between 
her  teeth. 

"  Ves,"  replied  Cuerrier,  <' very  mysterious- 
she  minds  her  own  business." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  the  widow,  "who  can  tell  what 
her  business  is,  she  who  comes  from  no  one 
knows  where  ?  But  I  '11  find  out  what  all  this 
secrecy  means,  trust  me  !  " 

So  the  widow  watched  the  little  house  and  its 
occupant  very  closely,  and  these  are  some  of 
the  thmgs  she  saw:  Every  morning  an  open 
door  and  crumbs  for  the  birds,  the  watering  of 
the  geranium,  which  was  just  going  to  flower,  a 


20      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


small  figure  going  in  and  out,  dressed  in  gray, 
and,  oftener  than  anything  else,  the  same  figure 
sitting  at  the  window,  working.  This  continued 
for  a  year  with  little  variation,  but  still  the  widow 
watched.  Every  one  else  had  accepted  the  pres- 
ence of  the  new  resident  as  a  benefaction. 
They  had  got  accustomed  to  her.  They  called 
her  "  the  little  milliner."  Old  Cuerrier  called 
her  *'  the  little  one  in  gray."  But  she  was  not 
yet  adjusted  in  the  widow's  system  of  things. 
She  laid  a  plot  with  her  second  cousin,  which 
was  that  the  cousin  should  get  a  hat  made  by 
Mademoiselle  Viau,  and  that  she  should  ask  her 
some  questions. 

"  Mademoiselle  Viau,  were  you  born  in  the 
city?" 

"  I  do  not  think.  Mademoiselle,  that  green 
will  become  you." 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  Where  did  you  live  be- 
fore you  came  here?" 

"Mademoiselle,  this  gray  shape  is  very 
pretty."     And  so  on. 

That  plan  would  not  work. 

But  before  long  something  very  suspicious 
happened.  One  evening,  just  about  dusk,  as 
Madame  Laroque  was  walking  up  and  down  in 
front  of  her  door,  a  man  of  a  youthful  appear- 
ance came  quickly  up  the  street,  stepped  upon 
Mademoiselle  Viau's  platform,  opened  the  door 
without  knocking,  and  walked  in.     Mademoi- 


ER. 

I  in  gray, 
me  figure 
:ontinued 
he  widow 

the  pres- 
nefaction. 
ley  called 
ier  called 
e  was  not 
of  things, 
sin,  which 

made  by 
Id  ask  her 

)rn  in  the 

;hat  green 

lu  live  be- 

;     is    very 


suspicious 
t  dusk,  as 
d  down  in 
ul  appear- 
)ped  upon 
d  the  door 

Mademoi- 


THE   LITTLE   MILLINER. 


21 


selle  was  working  in  the  last  vestige  of  daylight, 
and  the  widow  watched  her  like  a  lynx.  She 
worked  on  unconcernedly,  and  when  it  became 
so  dark  that  she  could  not  see  she  lit  her  lamp 
and  pulled  down  the  curtain.  That  night 
Madame  Laroque  did  not  go  into  Cuerrier's. 
It  commenced  to  rain,  but  she  put  on  a  large 
frieze  coat  of  the  deceased  Laroque  and 
crouched  in  the  dark.  She  was  very  much 
interested  in  this  case,  but  her  interest  brought 
no  additional  knowledge.  She  had  seen  the 
man  go  in ;  he  was  rather  young  and  about  the 
medium  height,  and  had  a  black  mustache ;  she 
could  remember  him  distinctly,  but  she  did  not 
see  him  come  out. 

The  next  morning  Mademoiselle  Viau's  cur- 
tain went  up  as  usual,  and  as  it  was  her  day  to 
go  to  the  butcher's  she  went  out.  While  she 
was  away  Madame  Laroque  took  a  long  look  in 
at  the  side  window,  but  there  was  nothing  to 
see  except  the  lounge  and  the  table. 

While  Madame  Laroque  had  been  watching 
in  the  rain,  Cuerrier  was  reading  to  Villeblanc 
from  Le  Monde.  "  Hello  !  "  said  he,  and  then 
went  on  reading  to  himself. 

"Have  you  lost  your  voice?"  asked  Ville- 
blanc, getting  nettled. 

"No,  no;  listen  to  this  —  'Daring  Jewel 
Robbery.  A  Thief  in  the  Night.'"  These 
were  the   headings  of  the  column,  and   then 


tmm 


22      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

followed  the  particulars.  In  the  morning  the 
widow  borrowed  the  paper,  as  she  had  been 
too  busy  the  night  before  to  come  and  hear  it 
read.  She  looked  over  the  front  page,  when 
her  eye  caught  the  heading,  "  Daring  Jewel 
Robbery,"  and  she  read  the  whole  story.  As 
she  neared  the  end  her  eyebrows  commenced 
to  travel  up  her  forehead,  as  if  they  were 
going  to  hide  in  her  hair,  and  with  an  expres- 
sion of  surprise  she  tossed  the  paper  to  her 
second  cousin. 

"  Look  here  !  "  she  said,  **  read  this  out  to 


me. 


M 


H 


((  ( 


The  second  cousin  commenced  to  read  at 
the  top. 

No,  no  !  right  here." 

The  man  Durocher,  who  is  suspected  of 
the  crime,  is  not  tall,  wears  a  heavy  mustache, 
has  gray  eyes,  and  wears  an  ear-ring  in  his  left 
ear.     He  has  not  been  seen  since  Saturday.'  " 

"  I  told  you  so  !  "  exclaimed  the  widow. 

"You  told  me  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the 
second  cousin. 

"  He  had  no  ear-ring  in  his  ear,"  said  the 
widow  —  "  but  —  but  —  but  it  was  the  rig/U 
ear  that  I  saw.     Hand  me  my  shawl !  " 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  I  have  business ;  never  mind  !  "  She  took 
the  paper  with  her  and  went  straight  to  the 
constable. 


it 


rER. 


THE   LITTLE   MILLLNER. 


23 


rning  the 
tiacl  been 
d  hear  it 
ge,  when 
ng  Jewel 
tory.  As 
mmenced 
Key  were 
ti  exprcs- 
:r  to   her 

is  out  to 

>  read  at 


)ected  of 
nustache, 
1  his  left 
rday.'  " 
ow. 
said  the 

said  the 
:he    right 


She  took 
it  to  the 


"  But,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  come." 

"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost ;  you  must 
come  now." 

"  But  he  will  be  desperate ;  he  will  face  me 
like  a  lion." 

*'  Never  mind  !  you  will  have  the  reward." 

*'  Well,  wait !  "  And  the  constable  went  up- 
stairs to  get  his  pistol. 

He  came  down  with  his  blue  coat  on.  He 
was  a  very  fat  man,  and  was  out  of  breath  when 
he  came  to  the  little  milliner's. 

"  But  who  shall  I  ask  for?"  he  inquired  of 
Madame  Larof[ue. 

"Just  search  the  house,  and  I  will  see  that 
he  does  not  escape  by  the  back  door."  She 
had  forgotten  tliat  there  was  no  back  door. 

"Do  you  want  a  bonnet?"  asked  Mademoi- 
selle Viau.  She  was  on  excellent  terms  with 
the  constable. 

"  No  !  "  said  he,  sternly.  "  You  have  a  man 
in  this  house,  and  I  have  come  to  find  him." 

"Indeed?"  said  mademoiselle,  very  stiffly. 
"  Will  you  be  pleased  to  proceed?  " 

"Yes,"  said  he,  taking  out  his  pistol  and 
cocking  it.  "  I  will  first  look  downstairs." 
He  did  so,  and  only  frightened  a  cat  from 
under  the  stove.  No  one  knew  that  Mademoi- 
selle Viau  had  a  cat. 

"  Lead  the  way  upstairs  !  "  commanded  the 
constable. 


,-1 


p     H,.    ii^.iapilJiK 


■^r- 


■asM 


24      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


f ; 


**  I  am  afraid  of  your  pistol,  will  you  not  go 
first?" 

He  went  first  and  entered  at  once  the  only 
room,  for  there  was  no  hall.  In  the  mean  time 
Madame  Laroque  had  found  out  that  there  was 
no  back  door,  and  had  come  into  the  lower 
flat  and  reinspected  it,  looking  under  every- 
thing. 

"  Open  that  closet !  "  said  the  constable,  as 
he  levelled  his  pistol  at  the  door. 

Mademoiselle  threw  open  the  door  and 
sprang  away,  with  her  hands  over  her  ears. 
There  was  no  one  there ;  neither  was  there 
any  one  under  the  bed. 

"  Open  that  trunk  !  "  eying  the  little  leather- 
covered  box. 

**  Monsieur,  you  will  respect  —  but  —  as  you 
will."  She  stooped  over  the  trunk  and  threw 
back  the  lid ;  on  the  top  was  a  dainty  white 
skirt,  embroidered  beautifully.  The  little  mil- 
liner was  blushing  violently. 

*'  That  will  do  !  "  said  the  constable.  "  There 
is  no  one  there." 

*'  Get  out  of  the  road  !  "  he  cried  to  the 
knot  of  people  who  had  collected  at  the  door. 
"  I  have  been  for  my  wife's  bonnet ;  it  is  not 
finished."  But  the  people  looked  at  his  pistol, 
which  he  had  forgotten  to  put  away.  He  went 
across  to  the  widow's. 

"  Look  here  !  "    he  said,   "  you  had   better 


Ik 


ER. 

VL  not  go 

the  only 
ean  time 
here  was 
he  lower 
:r  every- 

itable,  as 

Dor  and 
ler  ears, 
as   there 

leather- 

-as  you 
id  threw 
ty  white 
ttle  mil- 

"  There 

to  the 
he  door, 
it  is  not 
is  pistol, 
He  went 

i   better 


THE    LITTLE   MILLINER. 


25 


I 


stop  this  or  I  '11  have  the  law  on  you  —  no 
words  now  !  Making  a  fool  of  me  before  the 
people  —  getting  me  to  put  on  my  coat  and 
bring  my  pistol  to  frighten  a  cat  from  under 
the  stove.     No  words  now  !  " 

"  Monsieur  Cuerrier,"  inquired  Madame  La- 
roque  that  night,  "  who  is  it  that  Mademoiselle 
Viau  writes  to?  " 

"  I  am  an  official  of  the  government.  I  do 
not  tell  state  secrets." 

"  State  secrets,  indeed  !  Depend  upon  it, 
there  are  secrets  in  those  letters  which  the 
state  would  like  to  know." 

"  That  is  not  my  business.  I  only  send  the 
letters  where  they  are  posted,  and  refuse  to 
tell  amiable  widows  where  they  go." 

The  hairdresser,  forgetting  his  constant  fear  of 
disarranging  his  attire,  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  wildly. 

"  Trust  a  barber  to  laugh,"  said  the  widow. 
Villeblanc  sobered  up  and  look  sadly  at  Cuer- 
rier ;  he  could  not  bear  to  be  called  a  barber. 

"  And  you  uphold  her  in  this  —  a  person 
who  comes  from  no  one  knows  where,  and 
writes  to  no  one  knows  who " 

"  I  know  who  she  writc^i:  to "    The  widow 

got  furious. 

"  Yes,  who  she  vvrites  to  —  yes,  of  course 
you  do  —  that  pe-son  who  comes  out  of  her 
house  without   ever   having  gone   into  it,   and 


; 


^ 


26      IN   THE   VILLAGE  OF   VIGER. 


who  is  visited  by  men  who  go  in  and   never 
come  out  — 


'f 


M 


<( 


How  do  you  know  he  went  in? " 

"  I  saw  him." 

" How  do  you  know  he  never  came  out?  " 

*'  I  did  n't  see  him." 

"  Ah  !  then  you  were  watching?  " 

"  Wellj  what  if  I  was  !  The  devil  has  a  hand 
in  it." 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Cuerrier,  insinuatingly. 

**  Enough,  fool !  "  exclaimed  the  widow  — 
"  but  wait,  I  have  not  done  vet !  " 

"You  had  better  rest,  or  you  will  have  the 
law  on  you." 

The  widow  was  afraid  of  the  law. 

About  six  months  after  this,  when  the  snow 
was  coming  on,  a  messenger  came,  from  the 
city  with  a  telegram  for  Monsieur  Cuerrier  — 
at  least,  it  was  in  his  care.  He  very  seldom 
went  out,  but  he  got  his  boots  and  went  across 
to  Mademoiselle  Viau's.  The  telegram  was  for 
her.  When  she  had  read  it  she  crushed  it  in 
her  hand  and  leaned  against  the  wall.  But 
she  recovered  herself. 

"  Monsieur  Cuerrier,  you  have  always  been  a 
good  friend  to  me  —  help  me  !  I  must  go 
away  —  you  will  watch  my  little  place  when  I 
am  gone  !  " 

The  postmaster  was  struck  with  pity,  and  he 
assisted  her.     She  left  that  night. 


:>ER. 

ind  never 


THE   LITTI-E   MILLINER. 


27 


out?" 


las  a  hand 

linuatingly. 
widow  — 

I  have  the 


I  the  snow 
from  the 
uerrier  — 
ry  seldom 
ent  across 
m  was  for 
shed  it  in 
.vail.     But 

^ys  been  a 
must   go 
:e  when  I 

ly,  and  he 


^^  Accomplice!  ^^  the  widow  hissed  in  his  ear 
the  first  chance  she  got. 
^B        About  three  weeks  after  this,  when  Madame 
Laroque  asked  for  Le  Monde,  Cuerrier  refused 
to  give  it  to  her. 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  It  has  been  lost." 

^^Lostr^  said  the  widow,  derisively.  "Well, 
I  will  find  it."  In  an  hour  she  came  back  with 
the  paper. 

"  There  ! "  said  she,  thrusting  it  under  the 
postmaster's  nose  so  that  he  could  not  get  his 
pipe  back  to  his  mouth.  Cuerrier  looked  con- 
sciously at  the  paragraph  which  she  had  pointed 
out.     He  had  seen  it  before. 

"  Our  readers  will  remember  that  the  police, 
while  attempting  to  arrest  one  Ellwell  for  the 
jewel-robbery  which  occurred  in  the  city  some 
time  ago,  were  compelled  to  fire  on  the  man 
in  self-defence.  He  died  last  night  in  the  arms 
of  a  female  relative,  who  had  been  sent  for  at 
his  request.  He  was  known  by  various  names 
—  Durocher,  Gillet,  etc.  —  and  the  police  have 
had  much  trouble  with  him." 

"There  !  "  said  the  widow. 

"Well,  what  of  that?" 

"  He  died  in  the  arms  of  a  female  relative." 

"  Well,  were  you  the  relative?  " 

"  Indeed  !  my  fine  fellow,  be  careful !  Do 
you  think  I  would  be  the  female  relative  of  a 


rr^ 


28      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


convict?  Do  you  not  know  any  of  these 
names?"  The  postmaster  felt  guilty;  he  did 
know  one   of  the  names. 

"They  are  common  enough,"  he  replied. 
**  The  name  of  my  aunt's  second  husband  was 
Durocher." 

"  It  will  not  do  ! "  said  the  widow.  "  Some- 
body builds  a  house,  no  one  knows  who ; 
people  come  and  go,  no  one  knows  how ;  and 
you,  a  stupid  postmaster,  shut  your  eyes  and 
help  things  along." 

Three  days  after  this,  Mademoiselle  Viau 
came  home.  She  was  no  longer  the  little  one 
in  gray ;  she  was  the  little  one  in  black.  She 
came  straight  to  Monsieur  Cuerrier  to  get  her 
cat.  Then  she  went  home.  The  widow  watched 
her  go  in.  "  Now,"  she  said,  "  we  will  not  see 
her  come  out  again." 

Mademoiselle  Viau  refused  to  take  any  more 
work.  She  was  sick,  she  said ;  she  wanted  to 
rest.  She  rested  for  two  weeks,  and  Monsieur 
Cuerrier  brought  her  food  reridy  cooked.  Then 
he  stopped ;  she  was  better.  One  evening 
Madame  Laroque  peeped  in  at  the  side  window. 
She  saw  the  little  milliner  quite  distinctly.  She 
was  on  her  knees,  her  face  was  hidden  in  her 
arms.  The  fire  was  very  bright,  and  the  lamp 
was  lighted. 

Two  days  after  that  the  widow  said  to  Cuer- 
rier :  "  It  is  very  strange  there  is  no  smoke. 
Has  Mademoiselle  Viau  gone  away?" 


jER. 


THE   LITTLE   JVIILLLNER. 


29 


of    these 
' ;  he  did 

i  replied, 
sband  was 

"Some- 

ws    who ; 

how;  and 

eyes  and 

elle  Viau 
little  one 
ick.  She 
0  get  her 
kv  watched 
11  not  see 

any  more 
ranted  to 
Monsieur 
d.  Then 
evening 
e  window. 
;tly.  She 
:n  in  her 
the  lamp 


**  Yes,  she  has  gone." 

*'  Did  you  see  her  go  ?  " 

"  No." 

"It  is  as  I  said  —  no  one  has  seen  her  go. 
But  wait,  she  will  come  back ;  and  no  one  will 
see  her  come." 

That  was  three  years  ago,  and  she  has  not  come 
back.  All  the  white  curtains  are  pulled  down. 
Between  the  one  that  covers  the  front  window 
and  the  sash  stands  the  pot  in  which  grew  the 
geranium.  It  only  had  one  blossom  all  the 
time  it  was  alive,  and  it  is  dead  now  and  looks 
like  a  dry  stick.  No  one  knows  what  will  be- 
come of  the  house.  Madame  Laroque  thinks 
that  Monsieur  Cuerrier  knows.  She  expects, 
some  morning,  to  look  across  and  see  the  little 
milliner  cast  down  crumbs  for  the  birds.  In 
the  meantime,  in  every  corner  of  the  house  the 
spiders  are  weaving  webs,  and  an  enterprising 
caterpillar  has  blocked  up  the  key-hole  with  his 
cocoon. 


to  Cuer- 
o  smoke. 


THE  DESJARDINS. 

JUST  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  the  bridge 
crossed  the  Blanche,  stood  one  of  the  oldest 
houses  in  Viger.  It  was  built  of  massive  tim- 
bers. The  roof  curved  and  projected  beyond 
the  eaves,  forming  the  top  of  a  narrow  veranda. 
The  whole  house  was  painted  a  dazzling  white 
except  the  window- frames,  which  were  green. 
There  was  a  low  stone  fence  between  the  road 
and  the  garden,  where  a  few  simple  flowers 
grew.  Beyond  the  fence  was  a  row  of  Lom- 
barcy  poplars,  some  of  which  had  commenced 
to  die  out.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
was  a  marshy  field,  where  by  day  the  marsh 
marigolds  shone,  and  by  night,  the  fire-flies. 
There  were  places  in  this  field  where  you  could 
thrust  down  a  long  pole  and  not  touch  bottom. 
In  the  fall  a  few  musk-rats  built  a  house  there, 
in  remembrance  of  the  time  when  it  was  a 
favorite  wintering-ground.  In  the  spring  the 
Blanche  came  up  and  flowed  over  it.  Beyond 
that  again  the  hill  curved  round,  with  a  scarped, 
yellowish  slope. 

In  this  house  lived  Adele  Desjardin  with  her 
two   brothers,   Charles   and    Philippe.      Their 


THE   DESJARDINS. 


31 


bridge 
I  oldest 
^e  tim- 
beyond 
eranda. 
5  white 
green, 
le  road 
flowers 
F  Lom- 
nenced 
e  road 
marsh 
re-flies. 
1  could 
bottom, 
there, 
was   a 
ng   the 
Jeyond 
:arped, 

ith  her 
Their 


I 


father  was  dead,  and  when  he  died  there  was 
hardly  a  person  in  the  whole  parish  who  was 
sorry.  They  could  remember  him  as  a  tall, 
dark,  forbidding-looking  man,  with  long  arms 
out  of  all  proportion  to  his  body.  He  had 
inherited  his  fine  farm  from  his  father,  and  had 
added  to  and  improved  it.  He  had  always 
been  prosperous,  and  was  considered  the  wealth- 
iest man  in  the  parish.  He  was  inhospitable, 
and  became  more  taciturn  and  morose  after  his 
wife  died.  His  pride  was  excessive  and  kept 
him  from  associating  with  his  neighbors,  al- 
though he  was  in  no  way  above  them.  Very 
little  was  known  about  his  manner  of  life,  and 
there  was  a  mystery  about  his  father's  death. 
For  some  time  the  old  man  had  not  been  seen 
about  the  place,  when  one  day  he  came  from 
the  city,  dead,  and  in  his  coffin,  which  was 
thought  strange.  This  gave  rise  to  all  sorts  of 
rumor  and  gossip  ;  but  the  generally  accredited 
story  was,  that  there  was  insanity  in  the  family 
and  that  he  had  died  crazy. 

However  cold  Isidore  Desjardin  was  to  his 
neighbors,  no  one  could  have  charged  him  with 
being  unkind  or  harsh  with  his  children,  and  as 
they  grew  up  he  gave  them  all  the  advantages 
which  it  was  possible  for  them  to  have.  Adele 
went  for  a  year  to  the  Convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur 
in  the  city,  and  could  play  tunes  on  the  piano 
when  she  came  back ;  so  that  she  had  to  have  a 


'I 


il 


* 


■  mil  l^Wi^ ^—  —  . 


Pi 


32      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


piano  of  her  own,  which  was  the  first  one  ever 
heard  in  Viger.  She  was  a  slii^ht,  angular  girl, 
with  a  dark,  thin  face  and  black  hair  and  eyes. 
She  looked  like  her  father,  and  took  after  him 
in  many  ways.  Charleb,  .  e  elder  son,  was  like 
his  grandfather,  tall  and  muscular,  with  a  fine 
head  and  a  handsome  face.  He  was  studious 
and  read  a  great  deal,  and  was  always  talking 
to  the  cur<^  about  studying  the  law.  Philippe 
did  not  care  about  books ;  his  father  could 
never  keep  him  at  school.  He  was  short  and 
thick-set  and  had  merry  eyes,  set  deep  in  his 
head.  "  Some  one  must  learn  to  look  a^er 
things,"  he  said,  and  when  his  father  died  he 
took  sole  charge  of  everything. 

If  the  Desjardins  were  unsociable  with  others, 
they  were  hai)py  among  themselves.  Almost 
every  evening  during  the  winter,  when  the  work 
was  done,  they  would  light  up  the  front  room 
with  candles,  and  Adele  would  play  on  the 
piano  and  sing.  Charles  would  pace  to  and 
fro  behind  her,  and  Philippe  would  thrust  his 
feet  far  under  the  stove,  that  projected  from  the 
next  room  through  the  partition,  and  fall  fast 
asleep.  Her  songs  were  mostly  old  French 
songs,  and  she  could  sing  "  Partant  pour  la 
Syrie  "  and  "  La  Marseillaise."  This  last  was  a 
f^ivorite  with  Charles  ;  he  could  not  sing  himself, 
but  he  accompanied  the  music  by  making  wild 
movements  with  his  arms,  tramping  heavily  up 


I' 


I. 

le  ever 
ar  girl, 
i  eyes, 
er  him 
vas  like 
L  a  fine 
studious 
talking 
Philippe 
r   could 
lort  and 
p  in  his 
Qk   af^er 
died  he 

h  others, 
Almost 
the  work 
>nt  room 
on   the 
to  and 
rust  his 
from  the 
fall  fast 
French 
pour  la 
ast  was  a 
himself, 
ing  wild 
eavily  up 


THE   DESJARDINS. 


33 


and  down  before  the  piano,  and  shouting  out 
so  loudly  as  to  wake  Philippe,  "  Aux  armes, 
citoyens  !  "  On  fine  summer  evenings  Philippe 
and  Adcle  would  walk  up  and  down  the  road, 
watching  the  marsh  fire-flies,  and  pausing  on 
the  britlge  to  hear  the  fish  jump  in  the  pool, 
and  the  deep,  vibrant  croak  of  the  distant  frogs. 
It  waj  not  always  Philippe  who  walked  there 
with  Adcle ;  he  sometimes  sat  on  the  veranda 
and  watched  her  walk  with  some  one  else.  He 
would  have  waking  dreams,  as  he  smoked,  that 
the  two  figures  moving  before  him  were  himself 
and  some  one  into  whose  eyes  he  was  looking. 

At  last  it  came  to  be  reality  for  him,  and 
then  he  could  not  sit  quietly  and  watch  the 
lovers ;  he  would  let  his  pipe  go  out,  and 
stride  impatiently  up  and  down  the  veranda. 
And  on  Sunday  afternoons  he  would  harness  his 
horse,  dress  himself  carefully,  and  drive  off  with 
short  laughs,  and  twinklings  of  the  eyes,  and 
wavings  of  the  hands.  They  were  evidently 
planning  the  future,  and  it  seemed  a  distance 
of  vague  ha])piness. 

Charles  kept  on  his  wonted  way ;  if  they 
talked  in  the  parlor,  they  could  hear  him  stirring 
upstairs  ;  if  they  strolled  in  the  road,  they  could 
see  his  light  in  the  window.  Philippe  humored 
his  studious  habits ;  he  only  worked  in  the 
mornings ;  in  the  afternoons  he  read,  history 
principally.     His  favorite  study  was  the  "  Life 

3 


1 

^i 

ilU 

,11 

I 


34      IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 

of  Napoleon  Buonaparte,"  which  seemed  to 
absorb  him  completely.  He  was  growing  more 
retired  and  preoccupied  every  day,  —  lost  in  deep 
reveries,  swallowed  of  ambitious  dreams. 

It  had  been  a  somewhat  longer  day  than 
usual  in  the  harvest-field,  and  it  was  late  when 
the  last  meal  was  ready.  Philippe,  as  he  called 
Charles,  from  the  foot  of  the  stair,  could  hear 
him  walking  up  and  down,  seemingly  reading 
out  loud,  and  when  he  received  no  response  to 
his  demand  he  went  up  the  stairs.  Pushing 
open  the  door,  he  saw  his  brother  striding  up 
and  down  the  room,  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him  and  his  head  bent,  muttering  to 
himself. 

"  Charles  !  "  He  seemed  to  collect  himself, 
and  looked  up.  "Come  down  to  supper!" 
They  went  downstairs  together.  Adele  and 
Philippe  kept  up  a  conversation  throughout  the 
meal,  but  Charles  hardly  spoke.  Suddenly  he 
pushed  his  plate  away  and  stood  upright,  to  his 
full  height ;  a  look  of  calm,  severe  dignity  came 
over  his  face. 

"  I  !  "  said  he  ;  "  I  am  the  Great  Napoleon  !  " 

"  Charles ! "  cried  Adele,  "  what  is  the 
matter?" 

*'  The  prosperity  of  the  nation  depends  upon 
the  execution  of  my  plans.  Go  ! "  said  he, 
dismissing  some  imaginary  person  with  an  im- 
perious gesture. 


I  t 


THE   DESJARDINS. 


35 


id   to 

more 

I  deep 

'  than 
;  when 
called 
d  hear 
eadhig 
Dnse  to 
Pushing 

ling  lip 
clasped 
;ring  to 

himself, 
ipper  ! " 
ele  and 
lout  the 
enly  he 
t,  to  his 
ty  came 

)leon  1 " 
is    the 

^ds  upon 

said   he, 

an  im- 


They  sat  as  if  stunned,  and  between  them 
stood  this  majestic  figure  with  outstretched 
hand.  Then  Charles  turned  away  and  com- 
menced to  pace  the  room. 

"  It  has  come  !  "  sobbed  Adcle,  as  she  sank 
on  her  knees  beside  the  table. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  said  Phil- 
ippe, after  some  hours  of  silence.  "  It  is  hard  ; 
but  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do."  The  room 
was  perfectly  dark ;  he  stood  in  the  window, 
where  he  had  seen  the  light  die  out  of  the  sky, 
and  now  in  the  marshy  field  he  saw  the  fire- 
flies gleam.  He  knew  that  Adele  was  in  the 
dark  somewhere  beside  him,  for  he  could  hear 
'ler  breathe.  "We  must  cut  ourselves  off;  we 
must  be  the  last  of  our  race."  In  those  words, 
which  in  after  years  were  oftpn  on  his  lips,  he 
seemed  to  find  some  comfort,  and  he  continued 
to  repeat  them  to  himself. 

Charles  lay  in  bed  in  a  sort  of  stupor  for 
three  days.  On  Sunday  morning  he  rose.  The 
church  bells  were  ringing.  He  met  Philippe  in 
the  hall. 

"  Is  this  Sunday?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Come  here  !  "  They  went  into  the  front 
room. 

"  This  is  Sunday,  you  say.  The  last  thing  I  re- 
member was  you  telling  me  to  go  in  —  that  was 
Wednesday.  What  has  happened  ?  "  Philippe 
dropped  his  head  in  his  hands. 


II,: 


I'ii 


I'  )l 


mmm 


36      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

**  Tell  me,  Philippe,  what  has  happened?" 

"  I  cannot." 

"  I  must  know,  Philippe ;  where  have  I 
been?" 

''  On  Wednesday  night,"  said  he,  as  if  the 
words  were  choking  him,  '*  you  said,  '  I  am  the 
Great  Napoleon  ! '  Then  you  said  something 
about    the  nation,  and  you    have  not    spoken 


>> 


'.    i 


smce 

Charles  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  the  table 
against  which  Philippe  was  leaning.  He  hid 
his  face  in  his  arms.  Philippe,  reaching  across, 
thrust  his  fingers  into  his  brother's  brown  hair. 
The  warm  grasp  came  as  an  answer  to  all 
Charles's  unasked  questions ;  he  knew  that, 
whatever  might  happen,  his  brother  would  guard 
him. 

For  a  month  or  two  he  lay  wavering  between 
two  worlds ;  but  when  he  saw  the  first  snow, 
and  lost  sight  of  the  brown  earth,  he  at  once 
commenced  to  order  supplies,  to  write  des- 
patches, and  to  make  preparations  for  the 
gigantic  expedition  which  was  to  end  in  the 
overthrow  of  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias. 
And  the  snow  continues  to  bring  him  this 
activity ;  during  the  summer  he  is  engaged, 
with  no  very  definite  operations,  in  the  field, 
but  when  winter  comes  he  always  prepares  for 
the  invasion  of  Russia.  With  the  exception  of 
certain  days   of  dejection   and  trouble,  which 


II 


THE    DESJARDINS. 


37 


I?" 

ave    I 

if  the 
im  the 
lething 
spoken 

le  table 
He  hid 
across, 
,vn  hair. 
■  to  all 
:w  that, 
id  guard 

between 
t  snow, 
at  once 
ite   des- 
for   the 
in  the 
Russias. 
im   this 
ngaged, 
he  field, 
ares  for 
option  of 
le,  which 


Adele  calls  the  Waterloo  days,  in  the  summer 
he  is  triumphant  with  perpetual  victory.  On 
a  little  bare  hill,  about  a  mile  from  the  house, 
from  which  you  can  get  an  extensive  view  of 
the  sloi)ing  country,  he  watches  the  movements 
of  the  enemy.  The  blasts  at  the  distant  (juarries 
sound  in  his  ears  like  the  roar  of  guns.  Beside 
him  the  old  gray  horse,  that  Philippe  has  set 
apart  for  his  service,  crops  the  grass  or  stands 
for  hours  patiently.  Down  in  the  shallow  valley 
the  Blanche  runs,  glistening ;  the  mowers  sway 
and  bend;  on  the  horizon  shafts  of  smoke 
rise,  little  clouds  break  away  from  the  masses 
and  drop  their  quiet  shadows  on  the  fields. 
And  through  his  glass  Charles  watches  the 
moving  shadows,  the  shafts  of  smoke,  and  the 
swaying  mowers,  watches  the  distant  hills  fringed 
with  beech-groves.  He  despatches  his  aides- 
de-camp  with  important  orders,  or  rides  down 
the  slope  to  oversee  the  fording  of  the  Blanche. 
Half-frightened  village  boys  hide  in  the  long 
grass  to  hear  him  go  muttering  by.  In  the 
autumn  he  comes  sadly  up  out  of  the  valley, 
leading  his  horse,  the  rein  through  his  arm  and 
his  hands  in  his  coat-sleeves.  The  sleet  dashes 
against  him,  and  the  wind  rushes  and  screams 
around  him,  as  he  ascends  the  little  knoll.  But 
whatever  the  weather,  Philippe  waits  in  the  road 
for  him  and  helps  him  dismount.  There  is  some- 
thing heroic  in  his  short  figure. 


M 
V 

^^  111 
.Jill 


it 


!if 


ii 


I 


mmmmm 


h'j 


if  ( 

Mm 


38      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

«  Sire,  my  brother  !  "  he  says ;  —  "  Sire  let  us 

go  in  ! " 

"  Is  the  King  of  Rome  better?  " 

<'Yes." 

"And  the  Empress?" 

"  She  is  well." 

Only  once  has  a  gleam  of  light  pierced  these 
mists.  It  was  in  the  year  when,  as  Adele  said, 
he  had  had  two  Waterloos  and  had  taken  to  his 
bed  in  consequence.  One  evening  Adele  brought 
him  a  bowl  of  gruel.  He  stared  like  a  child 
awakened  from  sleep  when  she  carried  in  the 
lamp.     She  approached  the  bed,  and  he  started 

up. 

"  Ad^le  !  "  he  said,  hoarsely,  and  pulling  her 
face  down,  kissed  her  lips.  For  a  moment  she 
had  hope,  but  with  the  next  week  came  winter ; 
and  he  commenced  his  annual  preparations  for 
the  invasion  of  Russia. 


h- 


THE  WOOING  OF   MONSIEUR 
CUERRIER. 

IT  had  been  one  of  those  days  that  go 
astray  in  the  year,  and  carry  the  genius 
of  their  own  month  into  the  alien  ground  of 
another.  This  one  had  mistaken  the  last  month 
of  spring  foi  the  last  month  of  summer,  and 
had  lighted  a  May  day  with  an  August  sun. 
The  tender  foliage  of  the  trees  threw  almost 
transparent  shadows,  and  the  leaves  seemed 
to  burn  with  a  green  liquid  fire  in  the  windless 
air.  Toward  noon  the  damp  fields  commenced 
to  exhale  a  moist  haze  that  spread,  gauze-like, 
across  the  woods.  Growing  things  seemed  to 
shrink  from  this  heavy  burden  of  sun,  and  if  one 
could  have  forgotten  that  there  were  yet  trilliums 
in  the  woods,  he  might  have  expected  summer 
sounds  on  the  sum.mer  air.  After  the  sun  had 
set  the  atmosphere  hung  dense,  falling  into 
darkness  without  a  movement,  and  when  night 
had  come  the  sultry  air  was  broken  by  flashes 
of  pale  light,  that  played  fitfully  and  without 
direction.  People  sat  on  their  door-sieps  for 
air,  or  paced  the  walks  languidly.  It  was  not 
a  usual  thing  for  Monsieur  Cutrrier  to  go  out 


'r 


■ii 


I,  s-i 


.  > 


\ 


1 


^^^r 


m 


)  i  » 


?',  i 


40      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

after  niglitfall ;  his  shop  was  a  general  rendez- 
vous, and  the  news  and  the  gossip  of  the  neigh- 
borhood came  to  him  without  his  search.  But 
something  had  been  troubling  him  all  day,  and 
at  last,  when  his  evening  mail  was  closed,  he 
put  on  his  boots  and  went  out.  He  sauntered 
down  the  street  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  his 
fingers  in  his  vest  pockets.  His  face  did  not 
lose  its  gravity  until  he  had  seated  himself 
opposite  his  friend  Alexis  Girouord,  and  put  a 
pipe  between  his  teeth.  Then  he  looked  over 
the  candle  which  stood  between  them,  and 
something  gleamed  in  his  eye ;  he  nursed  his 
elbow  and  surveyed  his  friend.  Alexis  Girou- 
ard  was  a  small  man,  with  brown  side-whiskers ; 
his  face  was  so  round,  and  the  movements  of 
his  person  so  rapid,  that  he  looked  like  a 
squirrel  whose  cheeks  are  distended  with  nuts. 
By  occupation  he  was  a  buyer  of  butter  and 
eggs,  and  went  about  the  country  in  a  calash, 
driving  his  bargains.  This  shrewd  fellow,  whom 
no  one  could  get  the  better  of  at  trade,  was 
ruled  by  his  maiden  sister  with  a  rod  of  iron. 
He  even  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Cuerrier  by 
sufferance ;  their  interviews  were  carried  on 
almost  clandestinely,  with  the  figure  of  the 
terrible  Diana  always  imminent. 

When  a  sufficient  cloud  of  smoke  was  spread 
around  the  room,  Cuerrier  asked,  "  Where  is 
she?"     Alexis  darted  a  glance  in  the  direction 


WOOING  OF  MONSIEUR  CUERRIER.  41 

of  the  village,  removing  his  pipe  and  pointing 
to  the  same  quarter ;  then  he  heaved  a  relieved 
sigh,  and  commenced  smoking  again. 

"  So  you  are  sure  she  's  out?  "  said  Cuerrier. 

Alexis  looked  uneasy.  "No,"  he  answered, 
"I  can't  be  sure  she  's  out." 

Cuerrier  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  Alexis 
stepped  to  the  door  and  listened ;  when  he 
came  back  and  sat  down,  Cuerrier  said,  with- 
out looking  at  him,  "  Look  here,  Alexis,  I  'm 
going  to  get  married." 

His  companion  started  so  that  he  knocked 
;  ome  of  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  then  with  a 
nervous  jump  he  snatched  the  candle  and  went 
into  the  kitchen.  Cuerrier,  left  in  the  dark, 
shook  with  silent  laughter.  Alexis  came  back 
after  making  sure  that  Diana  was  not  there, 
and  before  seating  himself  he  held  the  candle 
close  to  his  friend's  face  and  surveyed  him 
shrewdly. 

**  So,  are  you  not  mad  ?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  not  mad." 

Alexis  sat  down,  very  much  troubled  in  mind. 
*'  You  see  I  'm  not  young,  and  the  mother  is 
getting  old  —  soe?  Now,  last  week  she  fell 
down  into  tie  kitciien." 

"  Well,  yi)ur  getting  married  won't  prevent 
her  foiling  into  the  kitchen." 

"It  is  not  that  so  much,  Alexis,  my  g^od 
friend,  but  if  you  had  no    one    to  look  after 


.•i 


I 


u 


I! 


<:«iM 


i' 


I  1 


I' 


1 


4 


wm 


it  ' 


■I. 


,  I 


H  I 


i^ 


42      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

things —  "  here  Alexis  winced  —  "  you  would 
perhaps  think  of  it  too." 

"  But  you  are  old  —  how  old  ?  " 

Cuerrier  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
traced  in  the  air  what  to  Alexis's  eyes  looked 
like  the  figure  fifty.  Cuerrier  offered  him  the 
candle.  "  There  is  not  a  gray  hair  in  my  head." 
Girouard  took  the  light  and  glanced  down  on  his 
friend's  shock  of  brown  hair  so  finely  disordered. 
He  sat  down  satisfied. 

"  To  whom  now  •-  tell  me  what  charming 
girl  is  to  be  the  postfj  ss  of  Viger;  is  it  the 
Madame  Laroque?" 

Cuerrier  broke  again  into  one  of  his  valiant 
laughs. 

"Guess  again,"  he  ciied,  "you  are  near  it. 
You  '11  burn  yourself  next  time." 

*'  Not  the  second  cousin  —  not  possible  —  not 
C^sarine  Angers?" 

Cuerrier,  grown  more  sober,  had  made  various 
signs  of  acquiescence. 

"And  what  will  your  friend  the  widow  say?" 

"  See  here,  Alexis,  she  's —  "  he  wasgohigto 
say  something  violent  —  "  she  's  one  of  the 
troubles." 

"  Bah  !  Who  's  afraid  of  her  !  If  you  had 
Diana  to  deal  with,  now." 

"  Well,  Alexis,  my  good  friend,  that  is  it. 
Could  you  not  drop  a  little  hint  to  the  widow 

some  time?     Something  like  this "  he  was 

silent. 


WOOING  OF  MONSIEUR  CUERRIER.  43 


m 


"Something  like  a  dumb  man,  eh?" 

"  Paufh  !  I  have  no  way  with  the  women,  you 
will  make  a  little  hint  to  the  widow." 

Just  then  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on 
the  walk.  Alexis  promptly  blew  out  the  candle, 
grasped  his  friend  by  the  arm,  and  hurried  him 
through  the  dark  to  the  door.  There  he  thrust 
his  hat  into  his  hand,  and  saying  in  his  ear, 
♦'  Good-night  —  good  luck,"  bolted  the  door 
after  him. 

The  night  had  changed  its  mood.  A  gentle 
breeze,  laden  with  soft  moisture,  blew  from  the 
dark  woods ;  the  mist  was  piled  in  a  gray  mass 
along  the  horizon ;  and  in  spaces  of  sky  as 
delicately  blue  as  blanched  violets,  small  stars 
flashed  clearly. 

Cuerrier  pursed  up  his  lips  and  whistled  the 
only  tune  he  knew,  one  from  "  La  Fille  de 
jMadame  Angot."  He  was  uneasy,  too  uneasy 
to  follow  the  intricacies  of  his  tune,  and  he 
stopped  whistling.  He  had  told  his  friend  that  he 
was  going  to  marry,  and  had  mentioned  the 
lady's  name  ;  but  what  right  had  he  to  do  that  ? 
"  Old  fool !  "  he  said  to  himself.  He  remem- 
bered his  feuds  with  his  love's  guardian,  some  of 
them  of  years'  standing ;  he  thought  of  his  age, 
he  ran  through  the  years  he  might  expect  to  live, 
and  ended  by  calculating  how  much  he  was 
worth,  valuing  his  three  farms  in  an  instant.  He 
felt  proud  after  that,  and  C^sarine  Angers  did 


'»R 


'  \ 


m 


:(ft 


?! 


1 


'  M 


■  II 


M'l 


*! 


"^ 


i«a 


^^^^sm^mmmmm 


\\  • 


44      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 

not  seem  quite  so  far  off.  He  resolved,  just 
before  sleep  caught  him,  to  open  the  campaign 
at  once,  with  the  help  of  Alexis  Girouard  ;  but 
in  the  dream  that  followed  he  found  himself 
successfully  wooing  the  widow,  wooing  her  with 
sneers  and  gibes,  and  rehearsals  of  the  old 
quarrels  that  seemed  to  draw  her  smilingly  to- 
ward him,  as  if  there  was  some  malign  influence 
at  work  translating  his  words  into  irresistible 
phrases  of  endearment. 


t   ' 


Monsieur  Cuerrier  commenced  to  wear  a  gal- 
lant blue  waistcoat  all  dotted  with  white  spots, 
and  a  silk  necktie  with  fringed  ends.  **  You  see 
I  am  in  the  fashion  i.^ow  "  he  explained  to  his 
friends.  Villeblanc,  the  superannuated  hair- 
dresser, eyed  him  critically  and  commenced  to 
suspect  him.  He  blew  a  whistle  of  gratification 
when,  one  evening  in  mid-June,  he  saw  the  shy 
Cuerrier  drop  a  rose,  full  blown,  at  the  feet  of 
C^sarine  Angers.  His  gratification  was  not 
unmixed  when  he  saw  C^sarine  pick  it  up  and 
carry  it  away,  blushing  delicately.  Cuerrier  tried 
to  whistle  "  La  Fille  de  Madame  Angot,"  but 
his  heart  leaped  into  his  throat,  and  his  lips 
curled  into  a  nervous  smile. 

*'  So  —  so  !  "  said  Villeblanc.  "  So  —  so  ! 
I  think  I  '11  curl  my  gentleman's  wig  for 
him." 

He  was   not   unheedful    of   the    beauty   of 


of 


fi 


WOOING  OF  MONSIEUR  CUERRIER.  45 

C^sarine.  He  spoke  a  word  of  enigmatical 
warning  to  the  widow.  "  You  had  better  put  off 
your  weeds.  Are  we  not  going  to  have  a 
wedding?" 

This  seed  fell  upon  ready  ground,  and  bore 
an  unexpected  shoot.  From  that  day  the 
widow  wore  her  best  cap  on  week  days.  Then 
along  came  the  good  friend,  Alexis  Girouard,  with 
his  little  hint.  "  My  friend  Cuerrier  wants  to 
get  married  ;  he 's  as  shy  as  a  bird,  but  don't  be 
hard  on  him."  The  plant  blossomed  at  once. 
The  widow  shook  her  finger  at  her  image  in  the 
glass,  took  on  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and 
dusted  off  a  guitar  of  her  youth. 

Cuerrier  came  in  the  evenings  and  sat  awhile 
with  the  widow,  and  that  discreet  second 
cousin,  hiding  her  withered  rose.  Sometimes 
also  with  a  stunted  farmer  from  near  Viger, 
who  wore  shoe-packs  and  smelt  of  native  to- 
bacco and  oiled  leather.  This  farmer  was 
designed  by  the  widow  for  that  rebel  C^sarine, 
who  still  resisted  behind  her  barricade,  now 
strengthened  by  secret  supplies  of  roses  from  an 
official  of  the  government  itself. 

*'  But  it  is  high  time  to  speak,"  thought 
Cuerrier,  and  one  night,  when  there  was  not  a 
hint  of  native  tobacco  in  the  air,  he  said  : 

"  Madame  Laroque,  I  am  thinking  now  of 
what  I  would  like  to  happen  to  me  before  I  grow 
an  old  man,  and  I  think  to  be  married  would 


t 


I 


ill! 


r 


t  .( 


IM 


i'^ 


I'ii^ 


V 


u 


'T^f^ffmmmm 


'■  i 


Nl 


i 


hi' 


46      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

be  a  good  thing.  If  you  make  no  objection, 
I  would  marry  the  beautiful  Ct^sarine  here." 

The  widow  gathered  her  bitter  fruit.  "  Old 
beast!"  she  cried,  stamping  on  the  guitar; 
*'  old  enough  to  be  her  great-grandfather  !  " 

She  drove  the  bewildered  postmaster  out  of 
the  house,  and  locked  C^sarine  into  her  room. 
She  let  her  come  down  to  work,  but  watched 
her  like  a  cat.  Forty  times  a  day  she  cried  out, 
"  The  old  scoundrel !  "  and  sometimes  she 
would  break  a  silence  with  a  laugh  of  high 
mockery,  that  ended  with  the  phrase,  *'The 
idea  !  "  that  was  like  the  knot  to  a  whip-lash. 
She  even  derided  Cuerrier  from  her  chamber 
window  if  he  dared  to  walk  the  street.  The 
postmaster  bore  it ;  he  pursed  up  his  lips  to 
whistle,  and  said,  "  Wait."  He  also  went  to 
see  his  friend  Alexis.  "  I  have  a  plan,  Alexis," 
he  said,  **if  Diana  were  only  out  of  the  road." 
But  Diana  was  in  the  road,  she  was  in  league 
with  the  widow.  "  Fancy  !  "  she  cried,  fiercely, 
*'  what  is  to  become  of  us  when  old  men  behave 
so.  Why,  the  next  thing  I  know,  Alexis  — 
Alexis  will  want  to  get  married." 

Whatever  Cuerrier's  plan  was,  he  got  no 
chance  to  impart  it.  Diana  was  always  in  the 
road,  and  reported  everything  to  the  widow; 
she,  in  turn,  watched  C^sarine.  But  one  night, 
when  Alexis  was  supposed  to  be  away,  he 
appeared  suddenly  in  Cuerrier's  presence.     He 


>l 


no 
the 

iow; 

light, 

he 

He 


WOOING  OF  MONSIEUR  CUERRIER.  47 

had  come  back  unexpectedly,  and  had  not 
gone  home  first.  The  plan  was  imparted  to 
him.  "  But  to  bring  the  calash  out  of  the  yard 
at  half-past  twelve  at  night  without  Diana  hear- 
ing, never  —  never  —  she  has  ears  like  a  watch- 
dog." But  he  pledged  himself  to  try.  The 
widow  saw  him  depart,  and  she  and  Diana  ex- 
pected a  coup-iVetdt.  Madame  Laroque  turned 
the  key  on  C^sarine,  and  fed  her  on  bread  and 
water ;  Diana  locked  her  brother's  door  every 
night,  when  jne  knew  he  was  in  bed,  much  to 
Alexis's  perplexity. 

The  lane  that  separated  the  widow's  house 
from  Cuerrier's  was  just  nine  feet  wide.  The 
postmaster  had  reason  to  know  that ;  Madame 
Laroque  had  fought  him  for  years,  saying  that 
he  had  built  on  her  land.  At  last  they  had 
got  a  surveyor  from  the  city,  who  measured  it 
with  his  chain.  The  widow  flew  at  him.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  The  Almighty  made 
this  nine  feet,"  he  said,  "  you  cannot  turn  the 
world  upside  down." 

"  Nine  feet,"  said  Cuerrier  to  himself,  "nine 
feet,  and  two  are  eleven."  With  that  length  in 
his  head  he  walked  over  to  the  carpenter's. 
That  evening  he  contemplated  a  two-inch  plank 
eleven  feet  long  in  his  kitchen.  The  same 
evening  Alexis  was  deep  in  dissimulation.  He 
was  holding  up  an  image  of  garrulous  innocence 
to  Diana,  who  glared  at  it  suspiciously. 


(" 


kW 


ii 


'M 


!i 


llll. 


48      IN   THE   VILLAGE    OF   VIGER. 


r, 


I  V 


I 


k 


The  postmaster  bored  a  small  hole  through 
the  plank  about  two  inches  from  one  end, 
through  this  he  ran  the  end  of  a  long  rope  and 
knotted  it  firmly.  Then  he  carried  the  plank 
upstairs  into  a  small  room  over  the  store. 
Opposite  the  window  of  this  room  there  was  a 
window  in  Madame  Laroque's  house. 

"Good-night,  sweet  dreams,"  cried  Alexis  to 
Diana,  as,  cold  with  excitement,  he  staggered 
upstairs.  He  made  all  the  movements  of  un- 
dressing, but  he  did  not  undress ;  then  he 
gradually  quieted  down  and  sat  shivering  near 
the  window.  In  a  short  time  Diana  crept  up 
and  locked  his  door.  It  took  him  an  hour  to 
gain  courage  enough  to  throw  his  boots  out  of 
the  window;  he  followed  them,  slipping  down 
the  post  of  the  veranda.  He  crept  cautiously 
into  the  stable ;  his  horse  was  ready  harnessed 
and  he  led  her  out,  quaking  lest  she  should 
whinny.  The  calash  was  farther  back  in  the 
yard  than  usual ;  to  drive  out  he  would  have  to 
pass  Diana's  window.  Just  as  he  took  the  reins 
in  his  hand  the  horse  gave  a  loud,  fretful  neigh ; 
he  struck  her  with  the  whip,  but  she  would  not 
stir.  He  struck  her  again,  and,  as  she  bounded 
past  the  window  it  was  raised,  and  something 
white  appeared.  Alexis,  glancing  over  his 
shoulder,  gave  a  hoarse  shout,  to  relieve  his 
excitement ;  he  had  seen  the  head  of  the  chaste 
Diana. 


/; 


i    J 


WOOING  OF  xMONSIEUR  CUERRIER.  49 


ling 
his 
his 

laste 


^ 


Cuerrier  let  down  the  top  window- sash  about 
two  inches,  then  he  raised  the  lower  sash  ahiiost 
to  its  full  height,  and  passed  the  end  of  the  rope 
from  the  outside  through  the  upper  aperture 
into  the  room,  and  tied  it  to  a  nail.  Then  he 
pushed  the  plank  out  of  the  window,  and  let  it 
drop  until  it  swung  by  the  rope ;  then  he  lifted 
it  up  hand  over  hand  till  the  end  rested  on  the 
sill.  Adjusting  it  so  as  to  leave  a  good  four 
inches  to  rest  on  the  opposite  ledge,  he  lowered 
away  his  rope  until  the  end  of  the  plank  reached 
the  opposite  side,  and  there  was  a  strong  bridge 
from  Madame  Laroque's  house  to  his  own. 
He  took  a  stout  pole  and  tapped  gently  on  the 
window.  Cesarine  was  stretched  on  her  bed, 
sleeping  lightly.  The  tapping  woke  her ;  she 
rose  on  her  elbow ;  the  sound  came  again ; 
she  went  to  the  window  and  raised  a  corner  of 
the  curtain.  Cuerrier  flashed  his  lantern  across 
the  glass.  Cesarine  put  up  the  window  quietly. 
She  heard  Cuerrier  calling  her  assuringly.  She 
crept  out  on  the  plank,  and  put  the  window 
down.  Then  she  stood  up,  and,  aided  by  the 
stout  pole,  which  the  postmaster  held  firmly, 
she  was  soon  across  the  abyss.  The  plank  was 
pulled  in,  the  window  shut  down,  and  all  trace 
of  the  exploit  had  vanished. 

At  sunrise,  pausing  after  the  ascent  of  a  hill, 
they  looked  back,  and  Ct^sarine  thought  she 
saw,  like  a  little  silver  point  in  the  rosy  light, 

4 


M 


i'f 


r 


II 


i: 


I: 


s\ 


f    ! 


50      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

the  steeple  of  the  far  St.  Joseph's,  and  below 
them,  from  a  hollow  filled  with  mist,  concealing 
the  houses,  rose  the  tower  and  dome  of  the 
parish  church  of  St.  Valerie. 

A  week  after,  when  the  farmer  from  near 
Viger  came  into  the  post-office  for  his  mail,  bear- 
ing the  familiar  odor  of  native  tobacco,  the  new 
postmistress  of  Viger,  setting  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  on  the  counter,  and  leaning  on  her 
pretty  wrists  until  four  dimples  appeared  on  the 
back  of  each  of  her  hands,  said,  "  I  have  nothing 
for  you." 

The  rage  of  Madame  Laroque  was  less  than 
her  curiosity  to  know  how  Cesarine  had  effected 
her  escape.  She  made  friends  with  her,  and 
wore  a  cheerful  face,  but  Ct^sarine  was  silent. 
"  Tell  her  *  birds  fly,'  "  said  Cuerrier.  Exasper- 
ated, at  last,  the  widow  commenced  a  petty 
revenge.  She  cooked  a  favorite  dinner  of 
Cuerrier's,  and  left  her  kitchen  windows  open  to 
fill  his  house  with  the  odor.  But,  early  that  morn- 
ing, the  postmaster  had  gone  off  to  St.  Valerie 
to  draw  up  a  lease,  and  had  taken  his  wife  with 
him.  About  noon  he  had  stopped  to  water  his 
horse,  and  had  climbed  out  of  his  calash  to 
pluck  some  asters ;  Cesarine  decked  her  hat 
with  them,  and  sang  a  light  song  —  she  had 
learned  the  air  from  *'  La  Fille  de  Madame 
Angot." 


M  r 


I, 


than 

3Cted 

,  and 

ilent. 

sper- 

petty 

of 

n  to 

orn- 

l^rie 

with 

his 

h  to 

hat 

had 

ame 


SEDAN. 

UNE  of  the  pleasantest  streets  in  Viger  was 
that  which  led  from  the  thoroughfare  of 
the  village  to  the  common.  It  was  a  little  street 
with  little  houses,  but  it  looked  as  if  only  happy 
people  lived  there.  The  enormous  old  willows 
which  shaded  it  through  its  whole  length  made 
a  perpetual  shimmer  of  shadow  and  sun,  and 
towered  so  above  the  low  cottages  that  they 
seemed  to  have  crept  under  the  guardian  trees 
to  rest  and  doze  a  while.  There  was  some- 
th '  idyllic  about  this  contented  spot ;  it 
scw  .jd  ^o  be  removed  from  the  rest  of  the 
village,  to  be  on  the  boundaries  of  Arcadia, 
the  first  inlet  to  its  pleasant,  dreamy  fields. 
In  the  spring  the  boys  made  a  veritable  Arcadia 
of  it,  coming  there  in  bands,  cutting  the  willows 
for  whistles,  and  entering  into  a  blithe  contest 
for  supremacy  in  making  them,  accompanying 
their  labors  by  a  perpetual  sounding  of  their 
pleasant  pipes,  as  if  a  colony  of  uncommon 
birds  had  taken  up  their  homes  in  the  trees. 
Even  in  the  winter  there  was  something  pleas- 
ant about  it ;  the  immense  boles  of  the  willows, 
presiding  over  the  collection  of  houses,  seemed 
to  protect  them,  and  the  sunshine  had  always  a 


I 

I 


m. 


■t  T; 


! 


n 


!;l 


i 


M 


^Hl^:. 


g 


■\ 


M 


I'll 
I    ( 


;■ 


If 


I't 


! 


i  I  ^:i 


; 


,' 


52      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

suggestion  of  warmth  as  it  dwelt  in  the  lon^ 
branches.  It  was  on  this  street,  just  a  Uttle 
distance  from  the  corner,  that  Paul  Arbique 
kept  his  inn,  which  was  famous  in  its  way.  He 
called  it  The  Turenne,  after  the  renowned  com- 
mander of  that  name,  for  they  had  the  same 
birthplace,  and  Arbique  himself  had  been  a 
soldier,  as  his  medals  would  testify.  The  loca- 
tion was  favorable  for  such  a  house  as  Arbique 
was  prepared  to  keep,  and  in  choosing  it  he 
appealed  to  a  crotchet  in  man  which  makes  it 
pleasantcr  for  him  to  go  around  the  corner  for 
anything  he  may  require.  A  pleasant  place  it 
was,  particularly  in  summer.  The  very  exterior 
had  an  air  about  it,  the  green  blinds  and  the  green 
slatted  door,  and  the  shadows  from  the  willow- 
leaves  playing  over  the  legend  "  Fresh  Butter- 
m.ilk,"  a  sign  dear  to  the  lover  of  simple  pleasures. 

From  all  the  appearances  one  would  have 
supposed  that  The  Turenne  was  a  complete 
success,  and  every  one  thought  Arbique  was 
romancing  when  he  said  he  was  just  getting 
along,  and  that  was  all.  But  so  far  as  he  knew 
he  spoke  the  truth,  for  his  wife  managed 
everything,  including  himself.  There  was  only 
one  thing  she  could  not  do ;  she  could  not 
make  him  stop  drinking  brandy. 

The  Arbiques  considered  themselves  very 
much  superior  to  the  village  people,  because 
they  had  come  from,  old  France.      "I    am  a 


only 
not 


f 


SEDAN. 


53 


Frenchman,"  Paul  would  say,  when  he  had 
had  too  much  brandy  ;  but  no  one  would  take 
offence  at  him,  he  was  too  good  a  fellow. 
When  he  had  had  a  modicum  of  his  favorite 
liquor  he  talked  of  his  birthplace,  Sedan,  the 
dearest  spot  on  earth  to  him,  and  his  Crimean 
experiences ;  and  when  he  had  reached  a  stage 
beyond  that  he  talked  of  his  wife.  It  was  a 
pathetic  sight  to  'ee  him  at  such  times,  as  he 
leaned  close  to  his  auditor,  and  explained  to 
him  how  superior  a  woman  Felice  was,  and 
what  a  cruel,  inexplicable  mistake  she  had  made 
in  marrying  him,  and  how  all  his  efforts  to 
make  her  happy  had  failed,  not  through  any 
fault  of  her  own,  but  because  it  was  impossible 
that  he  could  ever  make  her  happy ;  thus  taking 
all  the  blame  of  their  domestic  infelicity  upon 
his  own  shoulders,  with  the  simple  idea  that  it 
must  be  his  own  fault  when  no  fault  of  any 
kind  could  possibly  rest  with  Felice. 

He  was  a  tall  chivalrous-looking  fellow,  with 
a  military  air,  and  despite  his  fifty  years  and 
the  extent  of  his  potations  there  was  yet  a  brave 
flourish  in  his  manner.  He  was  seen  at  his 
best  on  Sunday,  when,  clothed  in  a  complete 
suit  of  black,  with  a  single  carnation  in  his 
buttonhole,  and  with  an  irreproachable  silk 
hat,  he  promenaded  with  Madame  Arbique  on 
his  arm.  Madame  on  such  occasions  was  as 
fine  as  her  lord,  and  held  her  silk  gown  far 


1 


i  I- 


!| 


■I  (' 


i 


;  Hi!' 


i 


■i\' 


«;; 


'1; 


I  1 


h  ^ 

V 


4 

■; 
Iff 


«i 


'. 


5!t 


n 


f 


54      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 

above  the  defilement  of  the  street,  in  order 
to  show  her  embroidered  petticoat  and  a  pair  of 
pretty  feet.  But  no  matter  how  finely  she  was 
dressed  she  ahvays  wore  an  expression  of  dis- 
content. She  had  the  instincts  of  a  miser,  but 
she  also  had  enough  good  sense  not  to  let  them 
interfere  with  the  sources  of  profit,  and  so, 
although  she  was  as  keen  to  save  a  cent  as  any 
one  could  have  been.  The  Turenne  showed  n^ 
sign  of  it.  The  provision  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  guests  was  ample  and  sufficient.  Felice 
had  always  had  her  own  way,  and  owing  to 
Paul's  incapacity,  which  had  overtaken  him 
gradually,  the  affairs  of  the  house  had  been 
left   in  her  hands. 

They  had  only  had  one  child,  who  had 
died  when  she  was  a  baby,  and  this  want  of 
children  was  a  great  trial  to  Paul.  They 
had  attempted  to  fill  her  place  by  adopt- 
ing a  little  girl,  but  the  experiment  had  not 
been  a  success,  and  she  grew  to  be  something 
between  a  servant  and  a  poor  relation  working 
for  her  board.  This  was  owing  to  no  fault  of 
Paul's,  who  would  have  prevented  it  if  he  could, 
but  his  wife  had  taken  a  dislike  to  the  child, 
and  she  simply  neglected  her.  Latulipe,  for  in 
the  family  she  was  called  by  no  other  name, 
was  a  strange  girl.  She  had  been  frightened 
and  subdued  by  Madame  Arbique,  and  at  times 
she   would   scarcely   speak   a   word,  and  then 


I 


1  (■•■ 


SEDAN. 


55 


me, 

ned 

lines 

men 


I 


again  she  would  talk  boldly  and  defiantly,  as  if 
she  were  protesting,  no  matter  how  insignificant 
her  remarks  might  be.  Her  personal  appear- 
ance was  as  odd  as  her  manner;  she  had  an 
abundance  of  hair,  of  a  light,  pleasant  shade  of 
red,  her  complexion  was  a  clear  white,  her  lips 
were  intensely  crimson,  her  dark  eyes  were 
small  but  quick,  and  very  clear.  Her  manner 
was  shy,  and  rather  awkward.  Her  one  claim 
to  distinction  was  that  she  had  some  influence 
over  Arbique,  whom  she  could  now  and  then 
prevent  drinking.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  and 
ashamed  of  the  position  she  occupied  in  the 
house,  which  was  so  different  from  what  he  had 
intended. 

When  the  Franco- Prussian  war  broke  out, 
and  for  months  before.  The  Turenne  was  the 
rendezvous  for  those  of  the  villagers  who  had 
any  desire  to  discuss  the  situation.  Arbique 
was  the  oracle  of  this  group,  and  night  after 
night  he  held  forth  on  the  political  situation,  on 
the  art  of  war,  and  his  personal  experiences  in 
the  army.  There  was  only  one  habitu^  of  The 
Turenne  who  was  silent  on  these  occasions, 
that  was  Hans  Blumenthal,  the  German  watch- 
maker. He  had  had  his  corner  in  the  bar- 
room ever  since  he  had  come  to  Viger,  and 
was  one  of  Arbique 's  best  customers.  But 
when  the  war  excitement  broke  out  Arbique 
expected  to  see  no  more  of  him ;  the  warmth 


i,  > 


'  {] 


H" 


M 


I 

t 

M 
''I 

I  .  I 


. 


l  \ 


i; 


a 


v\ 


iil 


I 


i    i 


!       t* 


j:|ll(^ 


56      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

of  the  discussions  and  the  violence  of  the 
treatment  his  nation  received  niglitly  would 
have  been  expected  to  drive  him  away.  But 
instead,  he  returned  again  and  again  to  his  place 
at  the  little  table  by  the  window,  peering  through 
his  glasses  with  his  imperturbable,  self-absorbed 
expression,  not  seeming  to  heed  the  wordy 
storms  that  beset  his  ears. 

Arbique,  when  hostilities  had  actually  broken 
out,  pasted  a  m.ap  of  the  seat  of  war  upon  the 
wall ;  above  this  he  placed  a  colored  picture  of  a 
French  chasseur,  and  scrawled  below  it  the 
words  "  A  Berlin!  "  Even  this  did  not  disturb 
the  German.  He  took  advantage  of  tlie  map,  and 
as  Arbique  had  set  pins,  to  which  were  attached 
red  and  blue  pieces  of  wool,  to  show  the  posi- 
tions of  the  armies,  he  even  studied  the  loca- 
tions and  movements  with  interest.  He  read 
his  paper,  gave  his  orders,  paid  his  score,  came 
and  went  as  he  had  always  done.  This  made 
Paul  very  angry,  and  he  would  have  turned 
him  out  of  the  house  if  he  had  not  remembered 
that  he  was  his  guest,  and  his  sense  of  honor 
would  not  permit  it.  He  was  drinking  very 
heavily  and  wanted  to  fight  some  one,  but  every 
one  agreed  with  him  except  the  German,  and 
he  kept  silence.  He  had  serious  thoughts  of 
challenging  him  to  a  duel,  if  the  opportunity 
offered. 

Latulipe  was  the  only  one  who  stood  up  for 


^nor 
rery 
^ery 

md 
of 

lity 


for 


SEDAN. 


57 


Hans.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  wait 
on  the  guests  sometimes,  when  Arbique  was 
incapacitated,  and  his  gentle  manner  had  won 
her  regard.  One  day  she  turned  on  Paul,  who 
was  abusing  Hans  behind  his  back,  and  gave  him 
a  piece  of  her  mind.  She  was  so  sudden  and 
sharp  with  it  that  she  sobered  him  a  little,  and 
in  thinking  it  over  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  if  he  could  help  it  she  would  see  the  Ger- 
man no  more.  Hans  noticed  her  absence,  and 
said  to  Paul  one  night  when  he  was  ordering  his 
beer:  "Where  is  Mademoiselle  Latulipe?" 
By  the  way  he  said  it,  in  his  odd  French,  any 
one  could  have  told  what  he  thought  of  Latulipe. 
"Mademoiselle  Latulipe,"  said  Arbique,  with  a 
dramatic  flourish,  "  is  my  daughter."  So  Hans 
saw  her  no  more  in  the  evening. 

He  had  other  trials  besides  this.  Once  in  a 
while  the  lads  in  the  street  hooted  after  him, 
and  this  sort  of  attention  became  more  frequent. 
One  evening,  after  the  news  of  Woerth  had  been 
received,  some  one  threw  a  stone  through  the 
window  of  his  shop.  That  very  night  he  stood 
before  the  map  with  his  hands  behind  him,  peer- 
ing into  it ;  as  he  altered  the  pins,  which  Arbique 
had  ^.ow  lost  all  interest  in,  he  heard  some  one 
muuer  "  See/era^ /^^  He  thought  it  must  be 
intended  for  him,  but  he  drank  his  beer  quietly 
and  went  home  rather  early.  After  he  had  gone 
some  of  his  enemies,    becoming    valiant   with 


!  ( 


In 


in 


^m 


'■■U 


n 


^*  'I 


i 

I   i 


^  [iff 

'     [    h 

I  ■  ■■ 

i  !'• 

f        1 

I                     ! 
»          1   * 

f     !( 

1            1 

: 

*i'j 


4  ! 


1    ?, 


!i 


I! 


W 


5     1'" 


I 


58      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

liquor,  made  a  compact  to  go  out  when  it  was 
late  enough,  break  into  his  house,  and  give  him 
a  sound  beating.  Uut  Latulipe  overheard  their 
plan  from  the  stairway,  and  as  soon  as  she  could 
get  away  without  being  noticed,  she  ran  over  to 
the  watchmaker's  shop.  It  was  quite  late  and 
there  was  not  a  soul  on  the  street.  She  was 
wondering  how  she  could  warn  him,  but  when 
she  reached  the  door  she  noticed  a  ladder  which 
led  to  a  scaffold  running  along  below  the  windows 
of  the  second  story,  where  some  workmen  had 
been  making  repairs.  There  was  a  light  burning 
in  one  of  the  second  story  windows,  and  without 
waiting  to  reflect  Latulipe  ran  up  the  ladder  and 
tapped  at  the  window.  Hans  opened  it,  and 
said  something  in  German  when  he  saw  who  it 
was.  Latulipe  did  not  wait  for  salutations,  but 
told  him  exactly  what  he  might  expect.  When 
that  was  over  she  tried  to  escape  as  she  had 
come,  but  the  darkness  below  frightened  her, 
and  she  could  not  go  down  the  ladder.  Hans 
tried  to  coax  her  to  come  in  at  the  window  and 
go  out  by  the  street  door,  but  she  would  not 
hear  to  that ;  she  leaned  against  the  house, 
shrinking  away  from  the  edge.  So  Hans  got 
out  upon  the  scaffolding.  "  Mademoiselle 
Latulipe,"  he  said,  in  his  rough  French,  "  you 
need  not  be  alarmed  at  me  ;  I  have  only  a  good 
heart  toward  you."  He  held  out  his  hand,  but 
Latulipe  knew  by  the  sound  of  his  voice  that  he 


[s  got 
)iselle 


\<( 


you 
good 

but 
lat  he 


SEDAN. 


59 


was  going  to  make  love  to  her,  and  before  he 
could  say  another  word  she  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ladder.     When  the  bravos  came  to  give 
Hans  his  beating  he  confronted  them  with   a 
lamp  in  one  hand  and  a  pistol  in  the  other,  and 
they  fell  over  one  another  in  their  haste  to  retreat. 
During  the  whole  of  the  month  of  August  Arbi- 
que  had  been  wild  with  excitement ;    he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  the  war,  and  would  talk  of 
nothing  else.  At  first  he  would  not  believe  in  any 
reverse  to  the  French  arms  ;  it  was  impossible  — 
lies,  lies,  everything  was  lies.     His  cry  was  "  A 
Berlin  I "     But  although  he  could  manage  to 
deceive  himself  by  this  false  enthusiasm,  some- 
times the  truth  would  stab  straight  to  his  heart 
like  a  knife,  and  he  would  tremble  as  if  he  had 
the  ague,  for  the  honor  of  his  country  was  the 
thing  dearest  to  him  in  all  the  world.     If  he 
could  only  have  died  for  her  !    But  there,  day 
after  day,  he  saw  the  pins  on  the  map,  moved 
by  that  cold  German,  close  around  Metz.     He 
could  no  longer  cry  "^  Berlin;'''    the  French 
army  was  facing  Paris,  with  Berlin  at  its  back. 
He  drank  fiercely  now,  and  even  Latulipe  could 
do  nothing  with  him.     Madame  Arbique  knew 
that  he  would  drink  himself  to  death,  as  his 
father  had  done.     He  would  sit  and  mutter  by 
the  hour,  thinking  all  the  time  of  what  revenge 
he  could  have  on  Blumenthal,  who  had  become 
to  his  eyes  the  incarnation  of  hated  Prussia. 
But  so  long  as  Hans  came  to  the  house  quietly 


it? 


II 


!i;J 


\ 


V 


I 


\ 


.\ 

"1 

'1 

f 

i 

-ill 

.  *i 

»i 

■:      1 

11 

\ 


IP 


i    { 


6o      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


n 


W 


i'li: 


to  sit  at  his  table  and  drink  his  beer  Arbique 
would  not  say  an  uncivil  word  to  him. 

On  the  evening  of  the  28th  of  August  there  was 
an  unusual  crowd  at  The  Turenne,  and  a  group 
had  surrounded  the  map  gesticulating  and  dis- 
cussing. Hans  had  finished  reading  his  paper, 
and  went  toward  them.  They  parted  when  they 
saw  him  coming,  and  he  stood  peering  down  at 
the  map  through  his  glasses.  Arbique  had  not 
been  seen  all  evening,  but  he  appeared  suddenly, 
looking  haggard  and  shattered,  and  caught  sight 
of  his  friends  grouped  round  the  German.  He 
went  slowly  toward  them,  and  as  he  approached 
he  heard  Hans  say :  "  There,  there  they  must 
fight,"  and  saw  him  put  his  finger  on  the  map 
between  M^zieres  and  Carignan,  almost  over 
Sedan. 

Paul  had  been  in  bed  all  day,  and  had  not 
had  anything  to  drink,  and  when  he  saw  the 
German  with  his  finger  on  Sedan  he  could  not 
stand  it  any  longer.  He  broke  out :  "  No,  not 
there — here,"  his  voice  trembling  with  rage. 
"  Here  they  will  fight  —  you  for  your  abomi- 
nable Prussia,  I  for  my  beautiful  France."  He 
fell  into  a  dramatic  attitude.  Drawing  two  pis- 
tols from  his  pocket,  he  presented  one  to  his 
nearest  friend  to  hand  to  Blumenthal.  The  man 
held  the  pistol  for  a  moment,  but  Hans  never 
moved.  Madame  Arbique,  seeing  the  commo- 
tion, and  catching  sight  of  the  weapons,  screamed 
as  loud  as  she  could,  and  Latulipe,  running  in, 


!i 


SEDAN. 


6i 


threw  herself  upon  Arbique.  He  turned  deadly 
pale  and  had  to  use  the  girl's  strength  to  keep 
from  falling.  Hans  went  away  quietly,  and  sat 
down  near  the  window.  Arbi(iue  was  fluttering 
like  a  leaf  in  the  wind,  and  Latulipe  and  Felice 
half  carried  him  upstairs.  The  men  left  in  the 
room  shook  their  heads. 

The  next  evening  Hans  was  walking  in  the 
starlight,  under  the  willows.  With  his  dim 
vision  he  saw  some  one  leaning  against  one  of 
the  trees,  but  when  he  passed  again  he  knew  it 
was  Latulipe.  He  stopped  and  spoke  to  her. 
When  she  spoke  she  did  not  answer  his  ques- 
tion. "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  he  will  never  get 
better,  never."  "  Yes,"  said  Hans,  "  he  will 
be  better."  "  No,"  said  Latulipe,  "  I  know 
by  the  way  he  looks,  and  he  says  now  that 
France  is  beaten  and  crushed  he  does  not  want 
to  live."  "Brave  soul!"  said  Hans.  "And 
when  he  goes,"  said  Latulipe,  "  what  is  to  be- 
come of  me?"  He  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
aim,  and  when  she  did  not  resist,  he  took  her 
hand  in  both  his  own.  She  was  giving  herself 
to  the  enemy.  A  cloud  above  had  taken  the 
starlight,  and  in  the  willows  a  little  rain  fell 
with  a  timorous  sound.  Latulipe  was  crying 
sofdy  on  Hans's  shoulder. 

It  was  September,  and  around  Viger  the 
harvest  was  nearly  finished.  The  days  were 
clear  as  glass ;  already  the  maples  were  stroked 


il 


i  i 


■  *  '« 


I    Vti 


U 


y^ 


( 


'V 


'  i»i 


It 


V 

i 

!  i      i 


I     '/ 


I 


ll  I 


\\- 


V 


62      IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 

with  fire,  with  the  lustre  of  wine  and  gold ; 
early  risers  felt  the  keener  air;  the  sunsets 
reddened  the  mists  which  lay  light  as  lawn  on 
the  low  fields.  But  Paul  Arbique  thought  and 
spoke  of  Sedan  alone,  the  place  where  he  was 
born,  of  the  Meuse,  the  bridges,  of  his  father's 
farm,  just  without  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  of 
his  boyhood,  and  the  friends  of  his  youth.  His 
thoughts  were  hardly  of  the  war,  or  of  the  terror 
of  the  downfall  which  had  a  little  while  before 
so  haunted  him. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  upon  which 
the  news  of  the  battle  had  come.  They  had 
resolved  not  to  tell  him,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  Latulipe's  manner  which  disturbed 
him.  Waking  from  a  light  doze,  he  said  : 
"That  Prussian  spy,  what  did  he  say?  —  they 
must  fight  there  —  between  Mt^zieres  and  Ca- 
rignan  ?  I  have  been  at  Carignan  —  and  he 
had  his  hound's  paw  on  Sedan "  He  was 
quiet  for  a  while ;  then  he  said,  dreamily : 
"They  —  have  —  fought."  Latulipe,  who  was 
watching  with  him,  wept.  In  the  night  his 
lips  moved  again.  "  France,"  he  murmured, 
"France  will  rise  —  again."  It  was  toward  the 
morning  of  the  next  day  when  his  true  heart 
failed.  Latulipe  had  just  opened  the  blinds. 
A  pale  light  came  through  the  willows.  When 
she  bent  over  him  she  caught  his  last  word. 
"Sedan."     He  sighed.     "Sedan." 


ii!i 


Told; 
nsets 
n  on 
t  and 
e  was 
ther's 
nd  of 
His 
terror 
Dcfore 

which 
y  had 
some- 
turbed 
said  : 
—  they 
d  Ca- 
nd  he 
e    was 
imily : 
o  was 
it   his 
Liured, 
d  the 
heart 
linds. 
When 
word. 


NO.    68   RUE   ALFRED   DE   MUSSET. 

TT  was  an  evening  early  in  May.  The  maples 
■*•  were  covered  with  their  little  seed-pods, 
like  the  crescents  of  the  Moslem  hosts  they 
hung  redly  in  the  evening  air.  The  new  leaf- 
tips  of  the  poplars  shone  out  like  silver  blooms. 
The  mountain-ash-trees  stood  with  their  virginal 
branches  outlined  against  the  filmy  rose  and 
gray  of  the  evening  sky,  their  slender  leaves 
half  open.  Everything  swam  in  the  hazy  light ; 
the  air  was  full  of  gold  motes ;  in  the  sky  lay 
a  few  strands  of  cloud,  touched  with  almost 
imperceptible  rose.  At  the  upper  window  of 
a  house  in  De  Musset  Street,  Maurice  Ruelle 
looked  down  upon  the  trees  covered  with  the 
misty  light.  His  window  was  high  above  every- 
thing, and  the  house  itself  stood  alone  on  the 
brow  of  a  little  cliff  that  commanded  miles  of 
broken  country.  Maurice  was  propped  up  at 
the  window,  and  had  a  shawl  thrown  about  his 
shoulders.  The  room  was  close  ;  a  little  wood- 
fire  was  dying  away  in  the  open  stove. 

"  Maurice,  Maurice,  I  'm  sick  of  life.     I  will 
be  an  adventuress." 


I'l 


V 


! 

■,i.i 

ii  n 

■  .  ( 

\ 

\m 

h-i 

:''! 

w 


■:l 


64      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


)  f, 


v. 


ifhi 


Maurice  turned  his  head  to  look  at  the 
speaker.  She  was  seated  on  the  floor,  leaning 
on  her  slanted  arm,  which  was  thrown  behind 
her  to  support  her  weight. 

''Well,  my  dear  sister,  you  are  ambitious  —  " 

"  Don't  be  bitter,  Maurice." 

"  I  'm  not  bitter;  I  know  you  are  ambitious  ; 
I  am  proud  of  you,  you  know.  I  don't  see  why 
you  have  to  nurse  me ;   fate  is  cruel  to  you." 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  nurse  you,  you  know  that ; 
what's  my  nursing  good  for?  I  only  wish  we 
had  money  enough  to  '^.nd  you  away  for  these 
terrible  winters,  or  give  you  a  room  in  some  fine 
hospital." 

Maurice  watched  the  birds  dropping  through 
the  glow.  A  little  maid  brought  in  candles. 
Eloise  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room 
resdessly. 

"  Ah,  well,  we  have  n't  the  money,"  Maurice 
sighed. 

"  Money — money  —  it 's  not  altogether  a  mat- 
ter of  money ;  to  me  it  's  a  matter  of  life." 

"  Well,  to  me  it 's  hardly  a  matter  of  money 
or  of  life." 

"  Maurice,  you  must  not  think  of  that ;  I  for- 
bid it.  I  must  do  something.  I  feel  that  I 
can  succeed.  Look  at  me,  Maurice  —  tell  me 
now  —  " 

She  stood  with  her  head  thrown  back,  and 
poised  lightly,  and  with  a  little  frown  on  her 
face. 


t  the 
waning 
)ehind 


IS 


»» 


itious  ; 
ce  why 
u." 

V  that ; 
nsh  we 
r  these 
lie  fine 

hrough 
;andles. 
e  room 

ilaurice 

a  mat- 

money 

I  for- 

that  I 

tell  me 

^k,  and 
)n  her 


NO.  68  RUE  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  65 

"  Superb  !  "  said  her  brother. 
*' I  know  I '11  do  something  desperate,"  she 
said.     **  I  must  live  ;  I  was  made  to." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  that  is  the  difference  between 


us. 


If 


*'  Maurice,  how  dare  you ;  I  forbid  it ;  I 
have  decided.  You  will  go  south,  and  1  will 
begin  to  live.     I  am  going  to  stop  wishing." 

"  Well,  I  have  long  ago  ceased  to  wish  ;  wish- 
ing was  the  only  passion  I  ever  had ;  I  have 
given  it  up.  But  I  have  not  wished  for  money ; 
sometimes  I  have  wished  for  health  —  " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence ;  he  only 
thought  of  what  he  had  longed  for  more  than 
anything  else,  the  love  of  his  beautiful,  impul- 
sive sister.  Eloise  was  dusting  her  geranium 
leaves.  Maurice  looked  from  his  window  into 
the  tree  on  which  the  leaves  were  not  yet  thick 
enough  to  hide  the  old  nests. 

A  short  time  after  this  a  rather  curious  adver- 
tisement appeared  in  one  of  the  city  papers. 
It  read  :  "  Very  handsome  old  oak  furniture. 
Secretaire  with  small  drawers.  A  dower  chest 
and  a  little  table.  Each  article  richly  carved. 
For  particulars  call  at  No.  68  Rue  Alfred  de 
M'  sset,  \  iger." 

Eloise  read  this  advertisement  to  her  brother. 

"What  vloes  this  mean?"  he  asked.  "We 
hav  no  such  furniture,  but  it  is  our  number 
true  enough.     Is  this  the  commencement?" 


I! 

i  ; 


I'iSi 

"llli 


i'    <  I 

} 


I 


m 


\i 


i  H 


j 

:'( 

1 

1 

66      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  that  is  what  it  is." 

The  next  day  callers  in  response  to  this 
advertisement  began  to  arrive.  Eloise  answered 
the  bell  herself.  The  first  was  a  rather  shabby 
old  man  who  wore  a  tall  hat  and  green  glassco. 
He  produced  a  crumpled  clipping  from  the 
paper,  and,  smoothing  it  out,  handed  it  to  Eloise. 

"  1  have  come  to  buy  this  second-hand  fur- 
niture," he  explained,  holding  his  hat  by  the 
brim.  Eloise  looked  at  the  advertisement  as  if 
she  had  never  seen  it  before. 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  no  such  furniture." 

"  I  have  not  mistaken  the  number  —  No.  68 
Rue  Alfred  de  Musset." 

"  Yes,  but  the  printer  must  have  made  a  mis- 
take ;  this  is  not  the  place." 

Many  times  that  day  she  had  to  give  miprom- 
ising  looking  people  the  same  answer.  Every 
one  of  them  accepted  the  situation  cheerfully  ; 
certainly  it  must  have  been  a  mistake.  Three 
letters  came  also  with  inquiries  about  the  furni- 
ture. One  of  these  Eloise  was  tempted  to  an- 
swer ;  but  she  resolved  to  wait  a  day  or  two. 
The  next  day  no  one  came  at  all ;  but  on  the 
next,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  a  young 
man  drove  up  in  a  dog-cart.  He  left  his  horse, 
and  walked  rapidly  through  the  little  garden  to 
the  house.  He  was  a  handsome  vigorous-look- 
ing youth.     He  rang  somewhat  violently ;  and 


this 
irered 
labby 
asseo. 
I  the 
lloise. 
d  fur- 
y  the 
t  as  if 

I.    *'I 

nIo.  68 
a  mis- 
prom - 
very 
rfully ; 
Three 
furni- 
o  an- 
two. 
Ml  the 
young 
horse, 
den  to 
i-look- 
' :  and 


NO.  68  RUE  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  67 

Eloise  answered  the  summons.  She  opened 
the  door  a  foot,  and  the  caller  could  only  see  a 
bit  of  her  white  dress. 

"  I  have  called  to  see  the  furniture  you  have 
advertised,"  he  said. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and,  taking  this  as 
an  invitation  to  enter,  he  stepped  into  the  hall. 
He  could  not  tell  why,  but  he  expected  to  see 
an  old  woman  behind  the  door ;  instead  he  saw 
a  very  graceful  girl  holding  the  door-knob  be- 
tween her  fingers.  Without  a  word  she  preceded 
him  with  an  air  of  shyness,  and  led  the  way  into 
the  front  room.  He  glanced  about  for  the 
furniture ;  it  was  evidently  not  there.  She 
asked  him  to  be  seated. 

"  My  father  wanted  me  to  come  out  and  look 
at  the  things  you  advertised,"  he  said. 

"  You  are  very  good,  Monsieur." 

"  Not  at  all ;  my  father  picks  up  these  things 
for  the  house,  when  they  are  really  valuable." 

"  These  are  very  valuable." 

She  still  wore  an  air  of  shyness,  and  looked 
abstractedly  from  the  window  into  a  lilac-bush  ; 
she  seemed  nervous  and  apprehensive. 

"Could  you  let  me  see  them?" 

There  was  a  noise  upstairs.  Eloise  half 
started  from  her  chair. 

"  I  beg  of  you  not  to  speak  so  loudly." 

He  relapsed  into  a  whisper. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  I  was  not  conscious  of  speak- 
ing too  loudly." 


'  1)1 


i;v!l? 


5 


kit 


u 


I 


Hi: 


il; 


f 


■il 


!'i 


!    / 


[    ^  '  ^!' 


,  I  h 


I  Hi 


n 


68      IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 

"  It  is  not  that,  but  —  I  cannot  explain." 
She  ended  abruptly.  "  You  see,"  she  said,  hes- 
itatingly,  "  I  wish  you  had  come  yesterday. " 

"  Have  you  promised  them  to  some  one  else  ?  " 

**  No,  not  at  all ;  but  yesterday  it  might  have 
been  possible,  to-day  it  is  impossible  to  show  it 
to  you." 

"  When  can  I  see  it  ?  " 

**  I  am  unfortunate  —  I  cannot  say  when.  It 
is  my  brother's  —  but  it  must  be  sold." 

An  expression  of  slight  distress  crossed  her 
face. 

"Does  he  not  want  it  sold?  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  question  me  ; 
I  am  in  great  perplexity."  She  continued,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "  You  have  rarely  seen  things 
so  exquisite ;  the  secretaire  has  a  secret  cabi- 
net, the  chest  is  carved  with  a  scene  of  nymphs 
in  a  wood ;  the  table  is  a  beautiful  little  table." 
Slie  figured  these  articles  in  the  air  with  an 
imaginative  wave  of  her  hand.  The  young  man 
began  to  regard  her  with  some  interest;  he 
remarked  to  himself  that  she  was  a  lovely  girl. 

"  I  'm  sorry  my  call  is  inopportune,  I  will 
come  again."     He  left  his  card  on  the  table. 

"  Perhaps  when  you  come  again  it  will  be 
more  convenient,"  she  said,  following  him  at 
some  distance  to  the  door.  He  opened  it  him- 
self, and  went  down  the  steps ;  as  he  looked 
back  it  was  slowly  shutting,  and  he  caught  a 


M 


able." 
h  an 

man 

;  he 
girl. 

will 
3le. 

n\\  be 
lim  at 

him- 
ooked 

ght  a 


NO.  68  RUE  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  69 

glimpse  of  her  delicate  white  dress  as  it  closed. 
Eloise  took  up  the  card.  The  name  was  Pierre 
Pechito.  She  knew  the  name ;  it  was  borne 
by  one  of  the  richest  of  the  city  merchants. 
She  took  the  card  up  to  Maurice.  He  held  it 
in  his  emaciated  fingers. 

"Is  this  the  end  of  Chapter  One?"  he 
asked.  *••■  Well,  he  may  never  come  back ;  and 
what  will  you  do  with  him  if  he  does  come 
back?" 

"  Oh,  he  will  come  ;  as  for  the  rest,  we  must 
succeed.  But  there  is  one  thing,  Maurice,  you 
must  be  the  invisible  ogre ;  you  must  rage 
about  here  as  wildly  as  you  can,  while  I  am 
working  out  our  destiny  downstairs." 

"My  destiny?"  he  asked,  with  a  falling 
touch  of  sadness  in  his  accent. 

A  few  days  after  this  Pierre  returned.  "  May 
I  come  in?  "  he  asked,  as  Eloise  held  the  door 
open  hesitatingly. 

"  If  you  wish,  Monsieur."  They  sat  a  moment 
silently  in  the  parlor. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Eloise,  commencing  hur- 
riedly but  determinedly,  *•'  in  this  life  everything 
is  uncertain ;  so  much  depends  upon  mere  cir- 
cumstances, which  are  too  obscure  for  us  to 
control.  I  am  willing  to  show  you  the  furni- 
ture, but  how  much  depends  upon  that  !  "  She 
rose  with  the  air  of  a  heroine,  and  led  the  way 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.     Pierre  followed.     She 


1 

i 


\\% 


r      , 


!ill 


,1; 

ii 


1 


\  y 


^99^sm 


70      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


1 


li    ! 


:  i 


i 


iX 


had  ascended  three  steps,  and  he  had  his  hand 
on  the  newel  post,  when  there  was  a  crash  in 
the  room  above.  Eloise  turned  suddenly  and 
leaned  against  the  banister,  glancing  up  the 
stairs,  and  extending  her  hand  to  keep  Pierre 
back.  "  Monsieur,  for  the  love  of  heaven  do 
not  come  on,  go  back  —  go  back  into  the  room, 
I  beg  of  you." 

"  I  am  leaving  you  in  danger,  Mademoiselle." 

"I  am  accustomed  to  it.  I  beg  of  you." 
She  accompanied  these  words  with  an  implor- 
ing gesture.  Pierre  went  into  the  room,  where 
he  paced  up  and  down.  The  noise  increased 
in  violence,  and  then  ceased  altogether.  Eloise 
returned  to  the  room ;  she  leaned  from  the 
window,  breathing  convulsively;  she  plucked 
one  of  the  half-grown  lilac  leaves  and  bit  it 
through  and  through. 

"  Yet  the  furniture  must  be  sold,"  she  said 
aloud.     Pierre  took  a  step  toward  her. 

*'  Mademoiselle,  you  are  in  distress.  May  I 
not  help  you?  I  am  able  to.  You  can  com- 
mand me." 

"  Alas,  Monsieur,  you  mean  I  can  command 
your  wealth."  Pierre  was  profoundly  moved  at 
the  sorrow  in  her  girlish  voice. 

*'  I  mean  I  would  help  you ;  I  want  to  do 
what  I  can  for  you." 

*'  Let  us  go  no  farther,"  she  said,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.     *'  I   must  not  come 


! 


! 


, 


I 


I 


NO.  68  RUE  ALFRED  DE  jMUSSET.  71 

into  your  happy  life."  There  was  a  trace  of 
bitterness  in  her  tone. 

"  I  have  undertaken  to  buy  the  furniture,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile.    *'  I  will  not  give  up  so  soon." 

*'  Maurice,  Maurice,  you  are  a  splendid  ogre  !  " 
said  Eloise,  throwing  open  the  door. 

"It  is  terribly  exhausting,"  he  said,  with  a 
faint  smile. 

When  Pierre  next  came  it  was  raining  quietly 
through  a  silver  haze ;  the  little  maid  opened 
the  door ;  a  moment  later  Eloise  came  into  the 
room.  When  she  spoke  her  voice  sounded 
restrained ;  and  to  Pierre  she  seemed  com- 
pletely different. 

"  I  have  deceived  you,"  she  commenced, 
without  prelude,  "  there  is  no  furniture  to  sell." 
To  all  his  questions  or  remonstrances  she  gave 
him  this  answer,  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  trust 
herself  to  other  words,  standing  with  her  eyes 
cast  to  the  floor,  and  an  expressionless  face. 
But  when  she  seemed  the  most  distant,  as  if 
she  could  not  recede  further,  she  burst  into 
tears.  Pierre  hurried  toward  her  —  "  Made- 
moiselle, I  cannot  address  you  by  name  ;  you 
cannot  deceive  me ;  you  are  in  great  distress. 
I  beg  you  not  to  think  of  the  furniture  ;  it  is 
not  necessary  that  these  things  of  wood  should 
trouble  you  further ;  to-doy  I  did  not  come  to 
see  it,  I  came  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,"  she  sobbed,  "  you  must 
never  come  here  again,  never  —  never !  " 


i, 


|: 


i ; .' 


,M 


*  ! 


l\. 


'       I'    ! 

■     i  I 


•h 


il 


if 


i 


'   i 


\  f 

i     V  I 


,fi 


}    f' 


: 


i'    I, 


72      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

"  Make  no  mistake,  I  will  come,  at  least 
until  I  can  help  you,  until  I  know  your  story." 
He  gained  her  hand. 

"  Monsieur,  I  cannot  accept  your  assistance  ; 
but  your  kindness  demands  my  story." 

She  told  it.  She  was  a  lovely  girl  caught  in 
a  net  of  circumstances.  She  was  an  orphan. 
Her  parents  had  left  her  and  her  brother  a 
little  money  —  too  little  to  live  on  —  they 
existed.  Her  brother  was  a  cripple  —  how 
often  had  she  wished  she  was  dead  — '■  he  was 
wicked.  She  hinted  at  unkindness,  at  tyranny. 
It  was  necessary  to  sell  these  heir-looms. 
(Here  Pierre  pressed  her  hand,  "You  could 
not  deceive  me,"  he  said.)  But  he  would  not 
hear  of  it.  Her  life  was  intolerable  —  but  she 
must  live  it  to  the  end  —  to  the  end.  "  If  I 
could  have  deceived  you,  Monsieur,  I  would 
have  done  so."  A  smile  shimmered  through 
her  tears.  Pierre  pressed  her  hand  ;  she  softly 
drew  it  away.  Suddenly  there  was  a  crash  in 
the  room  above ;  a  light  shower  of  dry  white- 
wash was  thrown  down  around  them ;  the 
sound  of  an  inhuman  voice  came  feebly  down 
the  stairs.  "  I  must  go,  do  not  detain  me," 
she  cried,  as  Pierre  tried  to  intercept  her.  He 
endeavored  to  hold  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  "  Do  not  go,  I  beg  of  you."  She 
turned  sweetly  toward  him.  "  I  must  go  ;  it  is 
my  duty ;  you  do  yours."     The  tears  were  not 


NO.  68  RUE  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  7 


)• 


lown 
.  »> 

He 

the 
She 
it  is 
not 


yet  dry  on  her  eyelids.  Pierre  watched  her 
flutter  upstairs  like  a  dove  flying  into  a  hawk's 
nest.  His  pulses  were  pounding  at  his  wrists. 
"  I  wish  I  knew  what  my  duty  was,"  he  said  to 
himself.  As  he  left  the  house  he  glanced  up  at 
the  window,  a  handkerchief  dropped  down ;  he 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  thrust  it  into  his 
bosom.  When  he  was  out  of  sight  he  examined 
it.  It  was  a  dainty  thing  of  the  most  delicate 
fabric ;  in  one  corner  were  the  words,  "  Eloise 
Ruelle." 

Eloise  found  Maurice  almost  fainting  with 
his  exertion.     When  he  recovered,  he  said  — 

"  Is  the  game  worth  the  candle?  " 

"Well,  we  will  see." 

"  Eloise,  you  have  been  crying." 

*'  I  cry  easily,  I  do  everything  easily." 

Maurice  turned  away  and  gazed  from  the 
window.  The  rain  was  so  fine  it  seemed  to  be 
a  rising  mist ;  the  trees  were  hidden,  like  plants 
in  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  somewhere  the  sun 
was  shining,  for  there  was  a  silver  bar  in  the 
mist. 

Pierre  was  not  slow  in  coming  again ;  but, 
instead  of  seeing  Eloise,  he  had  a  note  thrust 
into  his  hand  by  the  little  serving-maid.  It 
ran  :  *'  I  cannot  see  you.  He  forbids  it.  Who 
could  have  told  that  our  last  word  was 
*  good-by.'  If  I  could  have  spoken  again  I 
would  have  thanked  you.     How  can  I  ever  do 


I 


I 


\ 


\ 


17 


;fi| 


V 


'W 


\\\ 


1 


!: 


I, 

't- 

( 

1 

, 

.'. 

t 

i 

:f 


'i    i< 


If 


'/  .'I 


74      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 

so  now?  Adieu."  Reading  this  on  the  step, 
he  scrawled  hurriedly  on  a  leaf  of  his  note- book  : 
"  I  would  not  have  you  thank  me,  but  I  must 
see  you  again.  Your  risk  is  great,  but  I  will  be 
here  to-morrow  night ;  we  will  have  the  dark- 
ness, and  all  I  ask  is  ten  minutes.  Is  it  too 
much?  " 

He  gave  the  note  to  the  maid,  who  shut  the 
door.  The  house  looked  absolutely  sphinx-like 
as  he  walked  away  from  it. 

The  next  night  was  moist  with  a  touch  of 
frost.  A  little  smoke  from  burning  leaves  hung 
in  the  air  with  a  pungent  odor.  The  scent  of  the 
lilacs  fell  with  the  wind  when  it  moved.  Eloise 
was  muffled  picturesquely  in  a  cloak.  Pierre 
was  holding  her  hand,  which  she  had  not 
reclaimed.  "  I  have  dared  everything  to 
come,"  she  said  softly. 

*'  You  are  brave,  braver  than  I  was  to  ask 
you." 

"  You  know  my  story.  You  are  the  only 
one." 

"That  binds  us." 

"  How  can  I  thank  you?  " 

*'  You  must  not  try,  I  have  done  nothing." 

Just  then  a  burning  brand  was  hurled  from  the 
window;  it  fell  into  the  lilac-tree  where  it  de- 
voured a  cone  of  blossom  and  withered  the  leaves 
around  it.  It  threw  up  a  little  springing  flame 
which  danced  a  light  on  Eloise,  who  had  cow- 


NO.  68  RUE  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.   75 


ask 


only 


r  »» 


ered  into  a  corner  by  the  steps,  with  her  hand 
over  her  eyes.  Pierre  went  to  her.  "  Tell 
me,"  he  said,  "  what  does  this  mean?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  moaned,  "  he  suspects  we  are  here  ; 
he  always  has  a  fire  on  the  hottest  nights,  and 
he  is  throwing  the  sticks  out."  This  led  Pierre 
to  expect  another  one.  He  caught  her  by  the 
arm. 

"  You  must  come  out  of  danger,"  he  said, 
"  one  might  fall  on  your  dress."  The  brand 
was  glowing  in  spots.  He  tore  it  out  of  the 
bush  and  trampled  on  it.  They  went  to  the 
other  side  of  the  steps.  It  was  the  season  of 
quick  growth.  In  one  day  thousands  of  violets 
had  lit  their  little  tips  of  yellow  fire  in  the  tangle 
of  the  underwood ;  in  one  day  the  tulips  were 
moulded  into  fragile  cups  of  flame  burning 
steady  in  the  sunlight ;  in  one  day  the  lilacs 
had  burst  Lieir  little  clove-like  blooms,  and 
were  crowding  in  the  dark-green  leaves. 

Pierre  was  saying  excitedly  :  *'  Listen  to  me. 
This  thing  cannot  go  further.  I  love  you,  I 
am  yours.  I  must  protect  you.  You  cannot 
deny  me."  Eloise  tried  to  stop  him  with  an 
imploring  gesture.  "  No,"  he  cried,  "  you  must 
hear  me  !  you  must  be  mine  !  I  will  take  you 
away  from  here." 

"  Oh,  do  not  tempt  me  !  "  cried  Eloise.  *'  I 
must  stay  here.     I  cannot  leave  him." 

"You  must  leave  him.     What  hold  has  he 


;•' 


I   <, 


I    ; 


( 


1^ 

■ 


■ll 


'|)| 


ill 
•I 


1 1 


'^  I 


!  ■' 


t  .' 


*  '; 


i 


I , 


I!: 


i 


>    I 


76      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

upon  you  ?  I  will  never  let  you  go  back  to  this 
torment,  —  never.  I^loise,"  he  continued  seri- 
ously, *'  sometimes  we  have  to  decide  in  a 
moment  the  things  of  a  life-time.  This  is  such 
a  moment.  Before  I  pluck  this  blossom,"  he 
said,  leaning  down  to  a  dwarf  lilac-bush  bearing 
one  bloom,  "  I  want  you  to  promise  to  be  my 
wife."  A  moment  later  he  had  plucked  the 
flower,  but  had  dropped  it,  and  had  caught 
Eloise  in  his  arms.  She  stifled  a  cry,  and  gave 
herself  to  him. 

"  Maurice,  Maurice,"  cried  Eloise,  "  look  at 
me,  I  am  triumphant !  "  He  hardly  looked  at 
her ;  he  was  cowering  over  the  fire,  which  had 
smouldered  away,  and  in  which  the  ashes  were 
fluttering  about  like  moths. 

"  I  have  done  what  you  asked,  that  is  all," 
he  said,  with  an  effort. 

"  But  it  is  everything  to  me  ;  I  will  never  for- 
get you,  Maurice,  no  matter  how  powerful  I  may 
become." 

"  Alas !  you  need  not  remember  me  for  long. 
Perhaps  I  will  have  what  I  wanted  here,  in 
some  other  star." 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

A  few  evenings  later  Eloise  drew  the  door 
after  her :  "  Hush  !  "  she  said,  "  the  least  noise 
will  disturb  him."  She  hesitated,  and  left  the 
door  ajar. 

*'  Do  you  regret?  "  whispered  Pierre. 


NO.  68  RUE  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET.  77 

"  No,  but  I  am  leaving  everythinf^  " 
"  Yes,  even  the  old  furniture  ;  if"  it  had  not 
been  for  that  I  would  never  have  known  you  " 
he  said.  ' 

"Everything-  everything,"  murmured  Eloise. 

bhe  listened  for  a  moment,  and  then  shut  the 
door  softly  on  the  empty  house  :  Maurice  had 
gone  to  the  hospital  that  afternoon ;  the  little 
maid  had  been  discharged. 

"But,"  she   said,  holding  Pierre's  arm  and 
leaning  away  from   him  with  her  sweet  smile 
"  I  have  also  gained  all  —  everything." 

The  next  moment  they  had  gone  cautiously 
away.  ^ 

This  was  the  beginning  of  her  career. 


lu 


U 


^ 


\s 


'msa^ 


> 


:\ 


i! 


r! 


I  'i 


I,    I 


ii 


THE   BOBOLINK. 

TT  was  the  sunniest  corner  in  Viger  where  old 
-*•  Garnaud  had  built  his  cabin,  —  his  cabin, 
for  it  could  not  be  called  a  house.  It  was  only 
of  one  story,  with  a  kitchen  behind,  and  a 
workshop  in  front,  where  Etienne  Garnaud 
mended  the  shoes  of  Viger.  He  had  lived  there 
by  himself  ever  since  he  came  from  St.  Valerie ; 
every  one  knew  his  story,  every  one  liked  him. 
A  merry  heart  had  the  old  shoemaker;  it  made 
a  merry  heart  to  see  him  bending  his  white 
head  with  its  beautiful  features  above  his  homely 
work,  and  to  hear  his  voice  in  a  high  cadence 
of  good-humored  song.  The  broad  window  of 
his  cabin  was  covered  with  a  shutter  hinged  at 
the  top,  which  was  propped  up  by  a  stick 
slanted  from  the  window-sill.  In  the  summer 
the  sash  was  removed,  and  through  the  opening 
came  the  even  sound  of  the  Blanche  against  the 
bridge  piers,  or  the  scythe -whetting  from  some 
hidden  meadow.  From  it  there  was  a  view  of 
a  little  pool  of  the  stream  where  the  perch 
jumped  clear  into  the  sun,  and  where  a  birch 
growing  on  the   bank  threw  a  silver   shadow- 


!i  i  M  f 


THE   BOBOLINK. 


79 


I  him. 
made 
white 
omely 
dence 
ow  of 
ed  at 
stick 
mmer 
ening 
St  the 
some 
ew  of 
oerch 
birch 
dow- 


bridge  from  side  to  side.  Farther  up,  too,  were 
the  willows  that  wore  the  yellow  tassels  in  the 
spring,  and  the  hollow  where  burr-marigolds 
were  brown-golden  in  August.  On  the  hill 
slope  stood  a  delicate  maple  that  reddened  the 
moment  summer  had  gone,  which  old  Etienne 
watched  with  a  sigh  and  a  shake  of  the  head. 

If  the  old  man  was  a  favorite  with  the  elder 
people  of  Viger,  he  was  a  yet  greater  favorite 
with  the   children.      No  small   portion  of  his 
earnings   went   toward   the   purchase  of  sugar 
candy  for  their  consumption.    On  summer  after- 
noons he  would  lay  out  a  row  of  sweet  lumps  on 
his  window-sill  and  pretend  to  be  absorbed  by 
his  work,  as  the  children,  with  much  suppressed 
laughter,  darted  around  the  corner  of  his  cabin, 
bearing  away  the  spoils.    He  would  pause  every 
now  and  then  to  call,  *'  Aha  —  Aha  !      Where 
are  all  my  sweeties?  those  mice  and  rats  must 
have    been    after    them    again  1 "    and   would 
chuckle  to  himself  to  hear  the  children  trying 
to  keep  back  the  laughter,  out  of  sight  around 
the  corner.     In  the  winter,  when  the  boys  and 
girls  would  come  in  to  see  him  work,  he  always 
managed  to  drop  some  candy  into  their  pockets, 
which  they  would  find  afterward  with  less  sur- 
prise than  the  old  man  imagined. 

But  his  great  friend  was  the  little  blind 
daughter  of  his  neighbor  Moreau.  "  Here 
comes  my  little  fairy,"  he  would  call  out,  as  he 


I 


' 


H\ 


M 

MM 


I  • 


li 


HI 


il 


w 


am 


m^m 


mi 


M 


80      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


,1 


:l> 


r, 


1^ 


n 


!  • 


111 


i  i,t  1 


saw  her  feeling  her  way  clown  the  road  with  her 
little  cedar  wand.  "  Here  comes  my  little 
fairy,"  and  he  would  go  out  to  guide  her  across 
the  one  plank  thrown  over  the  ditch  in  front  of 
his  cabin.  Then  they  would  sit  and  chat  to- 
gether, this  beautiful  old  man  and  the  beautiful 
little  girl.  She  raised  her  soft  brown,  sightless 
eyes  to  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  he  told  her 
long  romances,  described  the  things  that  lay 
around  them,  or  strove  to  answer  her  questions. 
This  was  his  hardest  task,  and  he  often  failed 
in  it ;  her  questions  ran  beyond  his  power,  and 
left  him  mystified. 

One  spring  he  bought  a  bobolink  from  some 
boys  who  had  trapped  it ;  and  he  hung  its  cage 
in  the  sun  outside  his  cabin.  There  it  would  sing 
or  be  silent  for  days  at  a  time.  Little  Blanche 
would  sit  outside  under  the  shade  of  the  shutter, 
leaning  half  into  the  room  to  hear  the  old  man 
talk,  but  keeping  half  in  the  air  to  hear  the 
bird  sing. 

They  called  him  "  Jack  "  by  mutual  consent, 
and  he  absorbed  a  great  deal  of  their  attention. 
Blanche  had  to  be  present  at  every  cage  clean- 
ing. One  day  she  said,  "  Uncle  Garnaud,  what 
is  he  like?  " 

"  Why,  dearie,  he  's  a  beauty ;  he  's  black  all 
over,  except  his  wings  and  tail,  and  they  have 
white  on  them." 

"And  what  are  his  wings  like?" 


Ll. 


! 


THE   BOBOLINK. 


8i 


;h  her 

little 
icross 
3nt  of 
at  to- 
lutiful 
jhtless 
Id  her 
at  lay 
stions. 

failed 
;r,  and 

1  some 

ts  cage 
Id  sing 
)lanche 
hutter, 
d  man 
r   the 

)nsent, 
nition. 
clean- 
l,  what 

ick  all 
ly  have 


"  Well,  now,  that  finishes  me.  I  am  an  old 
fool,  or  I  could  tell  you." 

"  Uncle  Garnaud,  I  never  even  felt  a  bird ; 
could  I   feel  Jack?" 

"Well,  I  could  catch  him;  but  you  mustn't 
squeeze  him." 

Jack  was  caught  with  a  sudden  dart  of  the 
old  man's  hand ;  the  little  blind  girl  felt  him 
sofdy,  traced  the  shape  of  his  outstretched  wing, 
and  put  him  back  into  the  cage  with  a  sigh. 

"Tell  me,  Uncle  Garnaud,*'  she  asked,  "how 
did  they  catch  him?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  they  put  a  little  cage  on  a 
stump  in  the  oat- field,  and  by-and-by  the  bird 
flew  over  and  went  in." 

"  Well,  did  n't  he  know  they  would  not  let 
him  out  if  he  once  went  in?" 

"  Well,  you  know,  he  had  n't  any  old  uncle 
to  tell  him  so." 

"  Well,  but  birds  must  have  uncles,  if  they 
have  fathers  just  like  we  have." 

Old  F2tienne  puckered  ip  his  eyes  and  put 
his  awl  through  his  hair.  The  l)ird  ran  down 
a  whole  cadence,  as  if  he  w.is  on  the  wind  over 
a  wheat-field;   then  he  sLo.ped. 

"There,  Uncle  Garnaud,  I  know  he  must 
mean  somctliing  by  that.  What  did  he  do  all 
day  before  he  was  caught?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  did  any  work.  He  just 
flew  about    and   sang  all  day,   and    picked  up 

6 


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>  -If  ;i 


I  '    'i. 


I,i 


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1 1 


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4  'f 


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. 


» 


'    I 


1 


J 


82      IN   THE   VILLAGE    OF   VIGER. 

seeds,  and  sang,  and  tried  to  balance  himself 
on  the  wheat-ears." 

'*  He  sang  all  day  ?  Well,  he  does  n't  do 
that  now." 

The  bird  seemed  to  recall  a  sminy  field-cor- 
ner, for  his  interlude  was  as  light  as  thistle- 
down, and  after  a  pause  he  made  two  little 
sounds  like  the  ringing  of  bells  at  Titania's 
girdle. 

"  Perhaps  he  does  n't  like  to  be  shut  up  and 
have  nobody  but  us,"  she  said,  after  a  moment. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  hesitatingly,  "we 
might  let  him  go." 

"Yes,"  faltered  the  child,  "we  might  let  him 
go." 

The  next  time  little  Blanche  was  there  she 
said,  "  And  he  did  n't  do  anything  but  that, 
just  sing  and  fly?" 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  Well,  then,  he  could  fly  miles  and  miles, 
and  never  come  back,  if  he  did  n't  want  to?  " 

"  Why,  yes ;  he  went  away  every  winter,  so 
that  the  frost  would  n't  bite  him." 

"  Oh  !  Uncle  Garnaud,  he  did  n't,  did  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  true,  he  did." 

The  little  girl  was  silent  for  a  while ;  when 
the  old  man  looked  at  her  the  tears  were  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Why,  my  pretty,  what 's  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  just  thinking  that  why  he  did  n't 


?r,  so 
?" 


THE   BOBOLINK. 


S3 


id  n't 


sing  was  because  he  only  saw  you  and  me,  and 
the  road,  and  our  trees,  when  he  used  to  have 
everything." 

*'  Well,"  said  the  old  man,  stopping  his  work, 
''  he  might  have  everything  again,  you  know." 

"  Might  he?"  she  asked,  doubtfully. 

"Why,  we  might  let  him  fly  away." 

The  bird  dropped  a  clear  note  or  two. 

*'  Oh,  Uncle  Garnaud,  do  let  him  go  !  " 

"  Why,  beauty,  just  as  you  say." 

The  old  man  put  off  his  apron  and  took  the 
cage  down. 

"  Here,  little  girl,  you  hold  the  cage,  and 
we  '11  go  where  he  can  fly  free." 

Blanche  carried  the  cage  and  he  took  her 
hand.  They  walked  down  to  the  bridge,  and 
set  the  l:v^c  on  the  rail. 

"  Now,  dearie,  open  the  door,"  said  the  old 
man. 

The  little  child  felt  for  the  slide  and  pushed 
it  back.  In  a  moment  the  bird  rushed  out  and 
flew  madly  off. 

"  He  's  gone,"  she  said,  "  Jack  's  gone. 
Where  did  he  go.  Uncle?" 

"He  flew  right  through  that  maple-tree,  and 
now  he 's  over  the  fields,  and  now  he  's  out  of 
sight." 

"  And  didn't  he  even  once  look  back?  " 

"  No,  never  once." 

They  stood  there  together  for  a  moment,  the 


.;.  k 


!■?< 

i 

1 
) 

I 

1 
I 

\\  ' 

1 

w 

4i: 


.  1 
1 

1 

! 

1 

I 

1 

/ 

.  1 

(1 

J. 

I. 'I  t 


W 


.■iiL.-w.LJ.f^^m^ 


I  'i 


84      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

old  man  gazing  after  the  departed  bird,  the 
little  girl  setting  her  brown,  sightless  eyes  on 
the  invisible  distance.  Then,  taking  the  empty 
cage,  they  went  back  to  the  cabin.  P'rom  that 
day  their  friendship  was  not  untinged  by  regret; 
some  delicate  mist  of  sorrow  seemed  to  have 
blurred  the  glass  of  memory.  Though  he  could 
not  tell  why,  old  Etienne  that  evening  felt  anew 
his  loneliness,  as  he  watched  a  long  sunset  of 
red  and  gold  that  lingered  after  the  footsteps 
of  the  August  day,  and  cast  a  great  color  into 
his  silent  cabin  above  the  Blanche. 


!  '1 


1  i 

i  i 

•      it 

1 

i 

;,     1 

>  ^ 
» 

( 

t 

i     . 

.     t 
1 

It 


u  i 


), 


\\ 


I  ii 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF   THE   SEIGNIORY. 

THERE  was  a  house  on  the  outskirts  of 
Viger  called,  by  courtesy,  the  Seigniory. 
Passing  down  one  of  the  side-streets  you  caught 
sight  of  it,  set  upon  a  rise,  having  nothing  to  do 
with  the  street,  or  seemingly  with  any  part  of  the 
town.  Built  into  the  bank,  as  it  was,  the  front 
had  three  stories,  while  the  back  had  but  two. 
The  lower  fiat,  half  cellar,  half  kitchen,  was 
lighted  from  a  broad  door  and  two  windows 
facing  the  southeast.  Entrance  to  the  second 
floor  was  had  by  a  flight  of  steps  to  a  wide 
gallery  running  completely  across  the  front  of 
the  house.  Then,  above  this  second  story, 
there  was  a  sharply- peaked  roof,  with  dormer- 
windows.  The  walls  of  the  kitchen  story  were 
rough  stone,  while  the  upper  part  had  been  plas- 
tered and  overlaid  with  a  buff-colored  wash  ; 
but  time  had  cracked  off  the  plaster  in  many 
places,  and  showed  the  solid  stones. 

With  all  the  ravages  of  time  upon  it,  and 
with  all  its  old  surroundings  gone,  it  yet  had  an 
air  of  some  distinction.  With  its  shoulder  to 
the  street,  and  its  independent  solidity,  it  made 
men  remember  days  gone  by,  when  it  was  only 


U 


;   i: 


l'  'M 


h 


II 


iiii 


'  'I 


w 


wm 


mmm 


mmmmtm 


86      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


i: 


•  r 


s      I- 


a  farm-house  on  the  Estate  of  the  Rioux  family. 
Yet  of  that  estate  this  old  house,  with  its  sur- 
rounding three  acres  of  land,  was  all  that  re- 
mained ;  and  of  the  retainers  that  once  held 
allegiance  to  this  proud  name,  Louis  Bois  was 
the  last. 

Living  alone  in  the  old  house,  growing  old 
with  it,  guarding  some  secret  and  keeping  at  a 
proper  distance  the  inquisitive  and  loquacious 
villagers,  had  given  Louis  also  some  distinction. 
He  was  reported  an  old  soldier,  and  bore  about 
the  witness  of  it  in  a  wooden  leg.  He  swore, 
when  angry,  in  a  cavalier  foshion,  using  the 
heavier  English  oaths  with  some  freedom.  His 
bravery,  having  never  been  put  to  proof,  rested 
securely  upon  these  foundations.  But  he  had 
a  more  definite  charm  for  the  villagers ;  he  was 
supposed  to  have  money  of  his  own,  and 
afforded  the  charming  spectacle  of  a  human 
being  vegetating  like  a  plant,  without  effort  and 
without  trouble.  Louis  Bois  had  grown  large 
ii  his  indolence,  and  towards  the  end  of  his 
career  he  moved  with  less  frequency  and 
greater  difficulty.  His  face  was  round  and  fat ; 
the  hair  had  never  grown  on  it,  and  the  skin 
was  fine  and  smooth  as  an  orange,  without 
wrinkles,  but  marked  with  very  decided  pores. 
The  expression  of  amiability  that  his  mouth 
promised  was  destroyed  by  an  eye  of  suspicious 
restlessness.      About   fifteen   years   before   the 


i 


old 


TRAGEDY   OF   THE  SEIGNIORY.    Sy 

time  of  his  release  Louis  had  been  sworn  to  his 
post  by  the  hist  of  the  Rioux  family  —  Hugo 
Armand  Theophile. 

This  young  man,  of  high  spirit  and  passionate 
courage,  found  himself,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five, 
after  two  years  of  intermittent  study  at  a  Jesuit 
College,  fatherless,  and  without  a  sou  to  call 
his  own.  Of  the  family  estate,  th  :i  farm-nouse, 
round  which  Viger  had  closed,  was  all  that 
remained,  and  from  its  windows  this  fiery  youth 
might  look  across  the  ten  acres  that  were  his, 
over  miles  of  hill  and  wood  to  which  his  grand- 
father had  been  born.  This  vista  tortured  him 
for  three  days,  when  he  sold  seven  of  his  acres, 
keeping  the  rest  from  pride.  Then  he  shook 
off  the  dust  of  Viger,  but  not  before  swearing 
Louis  Bois,  who  was  old  enough  to  be  his 
father,  and  loved  him  as  such,  to  stay  and 
watch  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  Rioux  Estate 
until  he,  the  last  of  the  line,  should  return  and 
redeem  his  ancient  heritage.  He  would  be 
gone  ten  years,  he  said ;  and  Louis  reflected 
with  pride  that  his  own  money  would  keep  him 
that  long,  and  longer. 

At  first  he  kept  the  whole  house  open,  and 
entertained  some  of  his  friends ;  but  he  soon 
discovered  that  he  lost  money  by  that,  and 
gradually  he  boarded  up  the  windows  and  lived 
in  the  kitchen  and  one  room  of  the  upper  flat. 

He  was  a  sensitive  being,  this,  and  his  mas- 


1 


'  )f  ^ . 


: 

'^ 

■ 

1  1 

I  ♦ 


I 


'I, 


i 


.'Ik 


88      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


it  ■   • 


h 


I 


U       I! 


t 


1  ■ 


il 


!f;  I 


m 


ter's  idea  had  taken  hold  upon  him.  His  burly 
frame  contained  a  foint  heart :  he  had  no  physi- 
cal courage ;  and  he  was  as  suspicious  as  a 
savage.  Moreover,  he  was  superstitious,  as 
superstitious  as  an  old  wife,  and  odd  occur- 
rences made  him  uneasy.  If  he  could  have 
been  allowed  to  doze  on  his  gallery  in  the  sun 
all  his  days,  and  sleep  secure  of  dreams  and 
visitations  all  his  nights,  his  life  might  have 
been  bearable.  The  first  three  years  of  his 
stewardshi})  were  comparatively  uneventful. 
He  traced  his  liege's  progress  through  the 
civilized  world  by  the  post-mark  on  his  letters, 
which  sometimes  contained  a  bill  of  exchange, 
of  which  the  great  and  safe  bank  of  Bard^ 
Brothers  took  charge.  As  yet  his  master  had 
not  captured  a  treasure  ship  ;  but  seven  years 
remained. 

At  the  beginning  of  his  fourth  year  something 
happened  which  disturbed  Louis'  existence  to 
its  centre.  An  emissary  of  the  devil,  in  the 
guise  of  a  surveyor,  planted  his  theodolite,  and 
ran  a  roadway  which  took  off  a  corner  of  his 
three  acres,  and  for  this  he  received  only  an 
arbitrator's  allowance.  In  vain  he  stumped  up 
and  down  his  gallery,  and  in  vain  his  English 
oaths  —  the  roadway  went  through.  To  add 
to  his  trouble,  the  letters  from  the  wanderer 
ceased.  Was  he  dead?  Had  he  forgotten? 
No  more  money  was  coming  in,  and  Louis  had 


TRAGEDY   OF   THE   SEIGNIORY.    89 

the  perpetual  sight  of  the  alienated  lands  before 
his  eyes. 

One  day,  when  he  was  coming  home  from 
the  bank,  his  eye  caught  a  poster  that  made 
him  think ;  it  was  an  announcment  of  a  famous 
lottery.  Do  what  he  would  he  could  not  get  it 
out  of  his  head;  and  that  evening,  when  he  was 
cooking  his  sup^xjr,  he  resolved  to  make  money 
after  a  foshion  of  his  own.  He  saw  himself  a 
suddenly  rich  man,  the  winner  of  the  seventy- 
five-thousand-dollar  prize.  He  felt  his  knee 
burn  under  him,  and  felt  also  what  a  dead 
thing  his  wooden  leg  was. 

He  began  to  venture  small  sums  in  the  lot- 
tery, hoarding  half  his  monthly  allowance  until 
he  should  have  sufficient  funds  to  purchase  a 
ticket.  Waiting  for  the  moment  when  he  could 
buy,  and  then  waiting  for  the  moment  when  he 
could  receive  news  of  the  drawing,  lent  a  fever- 
ish interest  to  his  life.  But  he  failed  to  win. 
With  his  failure  grew  a  sort  of  exasj^eration  — 
he  would  win,  he  said,  if  he  spent  every  cent  he 
owned.  He  had  moments  when  he  suspjcted 
that  he  was  being  duped,  but  he  was  always 
reassured  upon  spelling  out  the  lottery  circular, 
where  the  drawing  by  the  two  orphan  children 
was  so  touchingly  described. 

At  last,  after  repeated  failures,  he  drew  every 
cent  of  his  own  that  he  could  muster,  and 
bought   a   whole   ticket.      He    never  rested    a 


i'MiU: 


M 


'  't 


it 


i! 


90      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

moment  until  the  returns  came.  He  had  days 
of  high  spirits,  when  he  touched  his  gains  and 
saw  them  heaped  before  him,  and  other  days  of 
depression  when  he  cursed  his  ill  luck,  and  saw 
blanks  written  everywhere.  When  he  learned 
the  result  his  last  disappointment  was  his  great- 
est.    He  had  drawn  a  blank. 

He  was  in  a  perfect  fury  of  rage,  and  went  off 
to  bed  cursing  like  a  sea-pirate.  When  he  took 
off  his  wooden  leg,  he  took  it  by  the  foot  and 
beat  the  floor  with  the  knee-end  until  he  got 
some  relief.  Could  he  have  captured,  he  would 
have  murdered  the  innocent  orphan  children. 
He  swore  never  to  be  tempted  again,  but  the 
morning  when  he  took  that  oath,  April  was 
bleak  on  the  hills,  and  a  tardy  spring  circled  in 
cold  sunshine,  leaving  the  buds  suspended. 

When  May  came,  his  hope  again  blossomed. 
Slowly  and  certainly  his  mind  approached  that 
money  he  had  in  trust  for  his  master,  until,  one 
sultry  day  in  June,  he  saw  his  way  to  success, 
and  felt  his  conscience  lulled.  That  afternoon 
he  dozed  on  the  gallery  and  dreamed.  He  felt 
he  was  in  Heaven,  and  the  heaven  of  his  dreams 
was  a  large  Cathedral  whose  nave  he  had 
walked  somewhere  in  his  journeyings.  He  saw 
the  solemn  passages,  the  penetrating  shafts  of 
light,  the  obscure  altar  rising  dimly  in  the  star- 
hung  alcove  ;  and  from  the  glamour  round  the 
altar  floated  down  a  magnificent  angel,  and  with 


\    : 


i      .« 


W 


\ 


TRAGEDY   OF  THE   SEIGNIORY.    91 

a  look  of  perfect  knowledge  in  his  eyes  shamed 
him  for  his  base  resolve.  Slowly,  as  Louis 
quailed  before  him,  he  dwindled,  shimmering 
in  the  glory  shaken  from  his  vesture,  until  he 
grew  very  faint  and  indistinct,  and  dissolved 
slowly  into  light.  Then  his  vision  swayed 
aside,  and  he  saw  his  own  gallery,  and  a  little 
cream-colored  dog,  that  sat  with  his  back  half- 
turned  towards  him,  eying  him  over  his  shoul- 
der. Superstitious  Louis  sliuddered  when  he 
saw  this  dog.  He  thought  there  vvas  something 
uncanny  about  him  ;  but  to  a  casual  observer 
he  was  an  ordinary  dog  of  mixed  blood.  He 
had  a  sharp  nose  and  ears,  piercing  eyes, 
straight,  cream-colored  hair  rather  white  upon 
the  breast,  and  a  tail  curled  down  upon  his 
back.  He  was  a  sniall  dog ;  an  intense  nervous- 
ness animated  his  every  movement. 

Louis  was  afraid  to  drive  him  away,  and  so 
long  as  he  saw  him  he  could  not  forget  his 
dream  and  the  reproof  he  had  had  from  heaven  ; 
gradually  he  came  to  believe  the  animal  was  a 
spirit  in  canine  form.  His  reasons  for  this 
were  that  the  dog  never  slept,  or  at  least  never 
seemed  to  sleep.  All  day  long  he  followed  Louis 
about.  If  he  dozed  in  his  chair  the  dog  laid 
his  nose  between  his  paws  and  watched  him. 
If  he  woke  at  night  his  eyes  burned  in  the 
darkness.  Again,  he  never  seemed  to  eat  any- 
thing, and  he  was  never  heard  to  utter  a  sound. 


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23  WIST  MAIN  STRIET 

WSBSTU.N.Y.  USIO 

(716)  172-4503 


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92      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

Louis,  half-afraid  of  him,  gave  him  a  name ; 
he  called  him  Fidele.  He  also  tried  to  coax 
him,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  dog  never 
approached  him  except  when  he  went  to  sleep ; 
then  he  would  move  nearer  to  him.  At  last  he 
got  greater  confidence  ;  and  Louis  awoke  from  a 
doze  one  day  to  find  him  gnawing  his  wooden 
leg.  He  tried  to  frighten  him  off;  but  Fidele 
had  acquired  the  habit  and  stuck  to  it.  When- 
ever Louis  would  fall  asleep,  Fidele  would 
approach  him  softly  and  chew  his  leg.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  soft  tremor  that  was  imparted  to  his 
fleshy  leg  from  the  gnawing  of  the  wooden  one  ; 
but  Louis  never  slept  more  soundly  than  when 
this  was  progressing.  He  saw,  however,  with 
dismay,  his  hickory  support  vanishing,  and  to 
avoid  wasting  his  money  on  wooden  legs  he 
covered  the  one  he  had  with  brass-headed 
tacks.  In  the  end  the  dog  came  to  be  a 
sort  of  conscience  for  him.  He  could  never 
look  at  his  piercing  eyes  without  thinking  of  the 
way  he  had  been  warned. 

To  pay  for  his  recklessness  Louis  had  to  live 
on  a  pittance  for  years  ;  just  enough  to  keep 
himself  alive.  He  might  have  lost  his  taste  for 
gambling,  through  this  rigor,  and  his  temptation 
to  use  his  master's  money  might  never  have 
returned  ;  but  in  his  lottery  business  he  had 
made  a  confidant  of  one  of  the  messengers  of 
the    Bard<^    Bank.      The    fellow's    name    was 


r » 


"T^ 


TRAGEDY   OF   THE   SEIGNIORY.   93 

Jacques  Potvin.  He  was  full  of  dissimulation  ; 
he  loved  a  lie  for  its  own  sake ;  he  devoured 
the  simple  character  of  Louis  Bois.  Whenever 
they  met,  Louis  was  treated  to  a  flushed  account 
of  all  sorts  of  escapades,  —  thousands  made  in  a 
night —  tens  of  thousands  by  a  pen-stroke. 

At  last,  as  a  crowning  success,  Jacques  Potvin 
himself  had  won  a  thousand  dollars  in  a  draw- 
ing that  Louis  could  not  participate  in.  This 
was  galling.  To  have  that  money  lying  idle ; 
never  to  hear  from  his  master  Rioux,  who  was 
probably  dead,  and  to  see  chance  after  chance 
slip  by  him.  He  gave  his  trouble  to  Potvin  ! 
Potvin  took  the  weight  lightly  and  threw  it 
over  his  shoulder : 

"  Bah  !  "  he  said.  "  If  I  had  that  money 
under  my  fingers,  I  would  be  a  rich  man  before 
the  year  was  out." 

The  fever  was  in  Louis'  blood  again.  He 
tossed  a  sleepless  night,  and  then  resolved 
desperately.  He  shut  Fidele  up  in  the  attic, 
and  went  off  and  bought  a  ticket  with  his 
master's  money.  When  he  came  back  from  the 
bank,  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  Fidele  seated 
in  one  of  the  dormer-windows,  watching  him. 
It  would  be  six  months  before  he  could  get  any 
news  of  his  venture ;  six  months  of  Fidele  and 
an  accusing  conscience. 

Half  the  time  was  scarcely  over  when,  to  his 
horror  and  joy,  came  a  letter  from  his  master. 


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94      IN   THE   VILLAGE  OF  VIGER. 

It  was  dated  at  Rio,  He  was  on  his  way 
home ;  he  would  arrive  in  about  six  months. 
The  probable  failure  of  his  scheme  gave  Louis 
agony  now.  He  would  have  to  face  his  master, 
who  would  arrive  at  Christmas  if  his  plans  were 
discharged,  with  a  rifled  bank  account.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  he  should  be  successful !  — 
Oh  !   that  gold,  how  it  haunted  him  ! 

One  night,  on  the  eve  of  his  expectation, 
Louis  fell  asleep  as  he  was  cooking  his  supper. 
He  slept  long,  and  when  he  awoke  his  stove 
was  red-hot.  He  started  up,  staring  at  some- 
thing figured  on  the  red  stove  door. 

It  was  only  the  number  of  the  stove,  but 
it  was  also  the  number  of  his  ticket.  He 
waited,  after  that,  in  perfect  serenity,  and 
when  his  notice  came  he  opened  it  with  calm- 
ness. He  had  won  the  seventy-five-thousand- 
dollar  prize. 

He  went  off  hot  foot  to  Potvin. 

**  Of  course,"  he  said,  **  I  '11  have  them  send 
it  to  the  IJardt^  Bank." 

"Just  keep  cool,"  said  Potvin.  "Of  course 
you  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"Why?  Wait  and  see.  The  Imperial  Bank 
is  safe  enough  for  you." 

Louis  had  the  money  sent  to  the  Imperial 
Bank. 

A  short  time  after  this,  when  Louis  passed 


TRAGEDY   OF   THE   SEIGNIORY.    95 

the  Bardt^  Bank,  a  crowd  of  people  were  besieg- 
ing the  doors  and  reading  the  placards ;  the 
Bank  had  suspended  payment.  The  shrewd- 
ness of  Potvin  had  saved  his  seventy-five 
thousand. 

When  he  next  met  Jacques,  he  hugged  him  to 
his  heart.     Jacques  laid  his  finger  on  his  nose : 

**  Deeper  still,"  he  said.  "  I  know,  I  l:no7a 
that  the  Imperial  itself  is  totterish.  This  affair 
of  the  Bardes  has  made  things  shaky ;  see  ? 
Everything  is  on  three  legs.  If  I  were  you, 
now;  if /were  you,  I  'd  just  draw  that  seventy- 
five  thousand  dollars  and  lay  it  away  in  a  strong- 
box till  this  blows  over." 

"  But,"  said  Louis,  in  a  panic,  "  I  have  no 
strong-box." 

**  But  /  have,"  said  Jacques. 

Louis  laid  his  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and 
could  have  wept. 

Christmas  passed,  but  no  sign  of  Hugo 
Armand  Theophile.  But  the  second  week  in 
January  brought  a  letter,  two  days  old,  from 
New  York.  Rioux  would  be  in  Viger  in  a  week 
at  the  latest.  Louis  was  in  great  spirits.  He 
planned  a  surprise  for  his  master.  He  went  off 
to  find  Jacques  Potvin,  but  Jacques  was  not  to 
to  be  found. 

Louis  arranged  that  Jacques  was  to  meet 
him  at  a  tavern  called  "  The  Blue  Bells  "  the 
next  day. 


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96      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


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"  But,"  said  Jnc(nics,  when  they  met,  *'  this  is 
absurd.     What  do  you  want  the  money  for?  " 

"  Never  mind,  I  want  it,  that 's  all." 

"  But  think  ;  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  !  " 

"  I  want  it  for  a  few  days.  Just  the  money 
—  myself  —  I   —  is  it  not  mine?  " 

Some  one  in  the  next  compartment  rose,  and 
put  his  ear  to  the  partition.  The  voices  were 
low,  but  he  could  hear  them  well.  Listening 
intently,  his  eyes  seemed  to  sink  into  his  head, 
and  burn  there  darkly. 

"  Well,  so  it  is,"  concluded  Jacques.  "  I  will 
get  it  for  you.  But  we  '11  have  to  do  the  thing 
quietly,  very  quietly.  I  'II  drive  out  to  Viger 
to-morrow  night,  say.  I  '11  meet  you  at  that 
vacant  field  next  the  church,  at  eleven,  and  the 
money  will  be  there." 

The  listener  in  the  next  compartment  with- 
drew hastily,  and  mingled  with  the  crowd  at 
the  bar.  That  night  he  wandered  out  to  Viger. 
He  observed  the  church  and  the  vacant  lot, 
and  saw  that  there  were  here  and  there  hollows 
under  the  sidewalk,  where  a  man  might  crouch. 

He  afterward  wandered  about  for  a  while, 
and  found  himself  in  front  of  the  old  farm- 
house. A  side  vrindow  of  the  second  story  was 
filled  with  the  flicker  of  a  fire.  A  ladder  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  ran  up  past  the  window. 
He  hesitated  whether  to  ascend  the  gallery- 
steps  or  the  ladder.  Ke  chose  the  ladder. 
With  his  foot  on  the  lowest  rung,  he  said  : 


' 


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[ 


TRAGEDY   OF  THE   SEIGNIORY.    97 

"  If  I  had  n't  this  little  scheme  on  hand  I 
would  go  in,  but  —  " 

He  went  up  the  ladder  and  looked  in  at  the 
window.  Louis  Bois  was  asleep  before  the  fire. 
Fidele  lay  by  his  side.  The  man  caught  the 
dog's  eye. 

Louis  woke  nervously,  and  saw  a  figure  at  the 
window.  The  only  thing  he  discerned  dis- 
tinctly was  a  white  sort  of  cap.  In  his  sudden 
fear,  seeking  something  to  throw,  he  touched 
Fidele,  and  without  thinking,  he  hurled  him 
full  at  the  man. 

The  dog's  body  broke  the  old  sash  and 
crashed  through  the  glass.  The  fellow  vanished. 
When  Louis  had  regained  his  courage,  he  let 
Fidele  in.  There  was  not  a  scratch  on  him. 
He  lay  down  about  ten  yards  from  Louis,  and 
looked  at  him  fixedly. 

The  old  soldier  had  no  sleep  that  night,  and 
no  peace  the  next  day. 

The  next  night  was  wild.  Louis  looked  from 
his  window.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly  on 
the  icy  fields  that  glared  with  as  white  a 
radiance  ;  over  the  polished  surface  drifted  loose 
masses  of  snow,  and  clouds  rushed  across  the 
moon. 

He  took  his  cloak,  his  stick,  and  a  dirk-knife, 
and  locking  Fidele  in,  started  forth.  A  few 
moments  after  he  reached  the  rendezvous, 
Jacques  drove  up  in  a  berlin. 

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98      IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


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**  Here  it  is,"  Jacques  said,  pressing  a  box 
into  his  hands,  "  the  key  that  hangs  there  will 
open  it.     I  must  be  olT.     Be  careful  !  " 

Jacques  whirled  away  in  the  wind.  There 
was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen.  Louis  clutched  his 
knife,  and  turned  toward  home.  He  had  not 
left  tiie  church  very  far  behind,  when  he  thought 
he  heard  something  moving.  A  cloud  obscured 
the  moon.  A  figure  leaned  out  from  under  the 
sidewalk  and  observed  him.  A  moment  later 
it  sprang  upon  the  pathway  and  leaped  forward. 

Louis  was  sure  some  one  was  there ;  half 
looking  round,  he  made  a  swipe  in  the  air  with 
his  knife.  It  encountered  something.  Looking 
round  fairly  he  saw  a  man  with  a  whitish  cap 
stagger  off  the  sidewalk  and  fall  in  the  snow. 

Hurrying  on,  he  looked  back  a  moment  later, 
and  saw  the  figure  of  the  man,  receding,  making 
with  incredible  swiftness  across  the  vacant  space. 

Louis  once  out  of  sight,  the  man  doubled 
with  the  rapidity  of  a  wounded  beast,  and  after 
plunging  through  side-streets  was  again  in  front 
of  the  farm-house.  He  ascended  the  ladder 
with  some  difficulty,  and  entered  the  room  by 
the  window.  Where  he  expected  to  find  his 
faithful  steward,  there  was  only  a  white  dog  that 
neither  moved  nor  barked,  and  that  watched 
him  fixedly  as  he  fell,  huddled  and  fainting,  on 
the  bunk. 

A  few   minutes  later  Louis   reached   home. 


'} 


T 


TRAGEDY   OF   THE   SEIGNIORY.    99 

The  sickness  of  fear  possessed  him.  He  stag- 
gered into  the  room  and  sat  before  the  fire, 
trying  to  control  himself.  When  he  was  calmer, 
he  found  himself  clutching  the  box.  He  threw 
off  his  cloak  and  took  the  key  to  fit  it  into  the 
lock.  The  key  was  too  large.  In  vain  he 
fussed  and  turned  —  it  would  not  go  in.  He 
shook  the  box ;  nothing  rattled  or  moved.  A 
horrid  suspicion  crossed  his  mind.  What  if 
Jacques  had  stolen  the  money  !  What  if  there 
was  nothing  in  the  box  ! 

He  seized  the  poker  in  a  frenzy  and  beat  the 
box  open.     It  was  empty  —  empty  —  empty  ! 

His  hand  went  round  in  it  mechanically, 
while  he  gazed,  wild  with  conjecture.  Then, 
with  an  oath  he  flung  the  box  on  the  fire  and 
turned  away.  The  disturbed  brands  shot  a 
glow  into  every  part  of  the  room,  and  Louis 
saw  by  one  flash  a  gray  Persian-lamb  cap,  which 
he  recognized,  lying  on  the  floor.  By  the  next, 
he  saw  the  head,  from  which  it  had  rolled, 
pillowed  on  his  bunk. 

He  tried  to  utter  a  cry,  but  sank  into  his  chair 
stricken  dumb ;  for  death  had  not  yet  softened 
the  lines  of  desperate  cunning  on  the  face, 
which,  in  spite  of  the  scars  of  a  wild  life,  he 
recognized  as  that  of  Hugo  Armand  Theophile 
Rioux. 

The  look  of  that  cap  as  he  had  seen  it  through 
the  window ;    the  glimpse  he   had  of  it  a  few 


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100    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

minutes  ago,  when  he  swept  his  knife  back 
through  the  air ;  the  face  of  his  master  —  dead  ; 
the  thought  of  himself,  duped  and  robbed,  fixed 
him  in  his  chair,  where  he  hung  half-Ufeless. 

Everything  reeled  before  him,  but  in  a  dull 
glare  he  saw  Fidele,  his  nose  between  his  ex- 
tended paws,  and  his  eyes  fixed  keenly  upon 
him.  They  seemed  to  pierce  him  to  the  soul, 
until  their  gleam,  which  had  followed  him  for 
so  many  years,  faded  out  with  all  the  familiar 
lines  and  corners  of  his  room,  engulfed  in  one 
intense,  palpitating  light. 

The  people  who  broke  open  the  house  saw 
the  unexplained  tragedy  of  the  Seigniory,  but 
they  did  not  find  Fidele,  nor  was  he  ever  seen 
again. 


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JOSEPHINE   LABROSSE. 

«  JOSEPHINE,"  said  Madame  Labrosse, 
J  quietly,  through  her  tears  —  "Josephine, 
we  must  set  up  a  Httle  shop." 

Said  Josephine,  with  a  movement  of  despair, 
"  Every  one  sets  up  a  little  shop." 

"True,  and  what  everyone  does  we  must  do." 

"  But  not  every  one  succeeds,  and  ours  would 
be  a  very  little  shop." 

"There  are  some  other  things  we  could  do." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Josephine,  "  do  not  dare  ! 
Let  us  set  up  a  little  shop." 

And  accordingly  the  front  room  was  cleared 
out  and  transformed.  What  care  they  took  ! 
How  clean  it  all  was  when  they  were  at  last 
ready  for  customers,  even  to  a  diminutive  sign. 

"My  daughter,  who  will  wait?"  asked 
Madame  Labrosse. 

"  I  will  wait,"  answered  Josephine,  and  she 
hung  her  bird  in  the  window,  put  the  door  ajar, 
and  waited. 

That  was  in  the  early  summer,  before  the 
Blanche  had  forgotten  its  spring  song. 

"  Mother,"  said  Josephine,  "  we  belong  to  the 
people  who  do  not  succeed." 


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I02    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 


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"  True  !  "  replied  Madame  Labrosse,  discon- 
solately. "  liut  we  must  live,  and  there  is  the 
mother,"  and  she  cast  her  eyes  to  the  corner 
where  her  own  mother  sat,  drawing  at  her  pipe, 
so  dark  and  withered  as  to  look  like  a  piece  uf 
punk  that  had  caught  fire  and  was  going  off  in 
smoke.    "  But  there  are  some  things  we  can  do." 

*'  Mamma,  do  not  (/are  /  " 

But  this  time  Madame  Labrosse  dared,  and 
she  put  on  her  cloak  and  went  into  the  city. 
When  she  came  back  her  face  was  radiant,  but 
Josephine  cried  herself  to  sleep  that  night. 

All  this  was  in  the  early  March,  before  the 
Blanche  had  learned  its  spring  song. 

In  truth,  if  the  shopkeeping  had  been  a 
failure,  was  it  the  fault  of  Josephine  or  Madame 
Labrosse?  Their  window  was  brighter  than 
other  shop-windows,  and  one  would  have 
thought  that  people  would  have  come  in,,  if 
only  to  look  at  the  sweet  eyes  of  Josephine 
and  hear  her  bird  sing.  But,  no  !  In  vain  for 
months  had  the  candy  hearts  and  the  red- 
and-white  walking-sticks  hung  in  the  window. 
It  was  the  crumble  and  crash  of  one  of  these 
same  walking-sticks  that  had  started  Josephine 
into  the  confession  that  the  shop  was  not  a 
success.  In  vain  had  jSIadame  Labrosse  placed 
steaming  plates  of  pork  and  beans  in  the  win- 
dow. Their  savor  only  went  up  and  rested  in 
beads  on  the  pane,  making  a  veil  behind  which 


JOSEPHINE   LABROSSE. 


103 


they  could  stifTen  and  grow  cold  in  protest 
against  an  unappreciative  public.  In  vain  had 
she  made  latire  golden-brown,  crisp,  and  ileli- 
cate  ;  it  only  grew  mealy  and  unresisting,  and 
Josephine  was  in  danger  of  utterly  spoiling  her 
complexion  by  eating  it. 

"There  must  be  something  wrong  with  the 
window,"  said  Madame  Labrosse. 

"  Well,  I  will  walk  out  and  see,"  said  Jose- 
phine, and  she  came  sauntering  past  with  as 
little  concern  as  possible. 

"  Mother,  there  is  nothing  wrong  with  the 
window." 

"  Wait !  I  will  try,"  said  Madame  Labrosse, 
and  she  in  turn  came  saunteri  if^  by.  '^ut 
Josephine  had  <^t.  od  in  the  door,  and  her  mother, 
chancin"r  first  to  catch  sight  of  her,  lost  her 
view  of  the  window  in  her  surprise  at  the  anxious 
beauty  of  her  daughter's  face. 

"Well!  mamma." 

"  Josephine,  why  did  you  stand  in  the  door?  " 
asked  her  mother,  kissing  her  on  either  cheek. 

**  But  the  window?  "  persisted  Josephine. 

"  Let  the  fiend  fly  away  with  the  window  !  " 
said  her  mother ;  and  Josephine's  bird,  catch- 
ing the  defiance  of  the  accent,  burst  into  a 
snatch  of  reckless  song. 

Now  that  Madame  Labrosse  had  dared  so 
much,  Josephine  was  not  to  be  outdone,   and 


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104    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

she  commenced  to  sew.  Her  mother  always 
went  away  early  in  the  morning  and  came  back 
before  noon,  a';d  one  day  she  caught  Josephine 
sewing.     She  snatched  the  work. 

"Josephine,  do  not  dare  !  "  When  she  next 
found  her  at  work  she  said  nothing,  but  instead 
of  kissing  her  cheek,  kissed  her  fingers. 

But  why  was  it  that  trouble  seemed  never 
very  far  away?  Josephine  sewed  so  hard  that 
she  commenced  to  take  stitches  in  her  side, 
and  of  a  sudden  Madame  Labrosse  fell  sick  — 
so  sick  that  she  could  not  do  her  work,  and  Jose- 
phine had  to  go  to  the  city  with  a  message. 
Her  heart  beat  as  she  passed  the  office-doors 
covered  with  strange  names ;  her  heart  stopped 
beating  when  she  came  to  the  right  one.  She 
tapped  timidly.  Some  one  called  out,  "  Come 
in  !  "  and  Josephine  pushed  open  the  door. 
There  was  a  sudden  stir  in  the  room.  The 
lawyers'  clerks  looked  up,  and  then  tried  to  go 
on  with  their  work.  A  supercilious  young  man 
minced  forward,  and  Josephine  gave  her  mes- 
sage. The  clerks  pretended  to  write,  but  the 
only  one  who  was  working  wrote  Josephine's 
words  into  a  lease  that  he  was  drawing  — "the 
said  party  of  the  second  part  cannot  covie.^^ 

When  she  went  away,  he  leaned  over  the 
supercilious  young  man  and  asked  :  "  Where 
did  she  say  she  lived  ?  " 

"At  St.  Renard,"  said  the  young  man;    at 


I 


-f 


JOSEPHINE   LABROSSE. 


105 


which  every  one  laughed,  except  his  inquirer. 
He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  peering  through  his 
glasses  at  the  place  where  Josephine  had  stood. 
St.  Renard  —  St.  Renard ;  was  there  ever  such 
a  saint  in  the  calendar?  was  there  ever  such  a 
suburb  to  the  city?  When  he  left  the  office  he 
walked  as  straight  home  as  he  could  go.  He 
kept  repeating  Josephine's  words  to  himself: 
"  My  mother,  Madame  Labrosse,  being  sick, 
cannot  come  ;  she  lives  at  "  —  St.  Renard  ?  No, 
no ;  not  St.  Renard.  When  he  had  arrived  at 
the  house,  where  he  had  boarded  for  ten  years, 
he  went  up  to  his  room,  and  did  not  come 
down  until  the  next  morning.  When  he  had 
shut  himself  in,  he  commenced  to  rummage  in 
his  trunk,  and  at  last,  after  tossing  everything 
about,  he  gave  a  cry  of  joy  and  pulled  out  a 
flat,  thin  book.  He  spread  this  out  on  the 
table  and  turned  the  leaves.  On  the  first  page 
were  some  verses,  copied  by  himself.  The  rest 
of  the  book  was  full  of  silhouettes,  cut  from 
black  paper  and  pasted  on  the  white.  He  found 
a  fragment  of  this  paper,  and  taking  his  scissors 
he  commenced  to  cut  it.  It  took  the  form  of  a 
face ;  but,  alas  !  not  the  face  that  was  in  his 
mind,  and  he  let  it  drop  in  despair.  Then  be 
tried  to  sleep,  but  he  could  not  sleep.  Through 
his  head  kept  nmning  Josephine's  message,  and 
he  would  hesitate  at  St.  Renard,  trying  to  re- 
member what  she  had  said.     At  last  he  slept 


't|;  i 


io6    IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 


i 


h'^ 


»i 


1^ 


!  i  I 


'. 


'  ^  1 1 


and  had  a  dream.  He  dreamed  that  he  was 
sailing  down  a  stream  which  grew  narrower  and 
narrower.  At  last  his  boat  stopped  amid  a 
tangle  of  weeds  and  water-lilies.  All  around 
him  on  the  broad  leaves  was  seated  a  chorus  of 
frogs,  singing  out  something  at  the  top  of  their 
voices.  He  listened.  Then,  little  by  little, 
whatever  the  word  was,  it  grew  more  distinct 
until  one  huge  fellow  opened  his  mouth  and 
roared  out  "  Viger  !  "  which  brought  him  wide 
awake.  He  repeated  the  word  aloud,  and  it 
echoed  in  his  ears,  growing  softer  and  softer 
until  it  grew  beautiful  enough  to  fill  a  place  in 
his  recollections  and  complete  the  sentence  — 
"  My  mother,  Madame  Labrosse,  being  sick, 
cannot  come  ;  she  lives  at  Viger." 

The  next  Sunday,  Victor  dressed  himself 
with  care.  He  put  on  a  new  peuce-veivet  coat, 
which  had  just  come  home  from  the  tailor's, 
and  started  for  Viger.  What  he  said  when  he 
found  Madame  Labrosse's  he  could  never  dis- 
tinctly remember.  The  first  impression  he 
received,  after  a  return  of  consciousness,  was  of 
a  bird  singing  very  loudly  —  so  loudly  that  it 
seemed  as  if  its  cage  was  his  head,  and  that,  in 
addition  to  singing,  it  was  beating  against  the 
bras.  He  was  less  nervous  the  next  time  he 
came,  and  the  oftener  he  came  the  more  he  won- 
dered at  the  sweetness  of  Josephine's  face.  At 
last  he  grew  dumb  with  admiration. 


WKm 


^ 


JOSEPHLNE   LABROSSE. 


107 


t( 


n 


"  He  is  very  quiet,  this  Victor  of  yours.'* 

*'  Mamma  !  "  said  Josephine,  consciously. 

"Does  he  never  say  a  word?  " 
Why,  yes." 
Now,  what  does  he  say?" 

"Mamma,  how  can  I  remember?" 

"Well,  try,  Josephine." 

"  He  said  that  now  the  leaves  were  on  the 
trees  he  could  not  see  so  far  as  he  used  to. 
That  before,  he  could  see  our  house  from  the 
Cote  Rouge,  but  not  now." 

"Well,  and  what  else?" 

"Mamma,  how  can  I  remember?  He  said 
that  the  birds  had  their  nests  all  built  now. 
He  said  that  he  wondered  if  any  birds  boarded 
out;  that  he  had  boarded  out  for  ten  years. 
Mamma,  what  are  you  laughing  at?  How 
cruel !  " 

"My  little  Jos(5,  the  dear  timid  one  is  in 
love." 

"  Mamma,  with  whom  ?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?  I  think  he  will  tell  you 
some  day." 

But  the  "some  day"  seemed  to  recede  ;  and 
all  the  days  of  May  had  gone  and  June  had 
begun,  and  still  Josephine  did  rot  know. 

Victor  grew  more  timid  than  ever.  Jose- 
phine thought  a  great  deal  about  his  silence, 
and  once  her  mother  caught  her  blushing  when 
he  chanced  to  stir  in  his  chair.     She  intended 


'  jH 


Hi* 


i       i 


!l 


:N 


io8    IN  THE  VILLAGE  OF  VIGER. 


I  i 


lit: 


n,  ^ 


•     "J. 


"it.. 


m 


to  ask  her  about  it,  but  her  memory  was  com- 
pletely unhinged  by  a  letter  she  received.  It 
was  evidently  written  with  great  labor,  and  it 
caused  the  greatest  exn'tement  in  the  house. 

"Mon  Dieu  !  "  Madame  Labrosse  exclaimed, 
"  Frangois  Xavier  comes  to  dine  to-morrow  !  " 
And  preparations  were  at  once  commenced  for 
the  reception  of  this  Frangois  Xavier,  who  was 
Madame  Labrosse's  favorite  cousin. 

His  full  name  was  Frangois  Xavier  Beaugrand 
de  Champagne.  He  had  just  come  down  from 
his  winter's  work  up  the  river,  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  he  was  to  dine  with  his 
cousin  he  stood  leaning  against  the  brick  wall 
of  a  small  hotel  in  the  suburbs.  The  sunlight 
was  streaming  down  on  him,  reflected  up  from 
the  pavement  and  back  from  the  house,  and  he 
basked  in  the  heat  with  his  eyes  half  shut.  His 
face  was  burned  to  a  fiery  brown ;  but  as  he 
had  just  lost  his  full  beard,  his  chin  was  a  sort 
of  whitish-blue.  He  was  evidently  dressed  with 
great  care,  in  a  completely  new  outfit.  He 
appeared  as  if  forced  into  a  suit  of  dark-brown 
cloth ;  on  his  feet  he  woie  a  tight  pair  of  low 
shoes,  with  high  heels,  and  red  socks;  his 
arms  protruded  from  his  coat-sleeves,  showing  a 
glimpse  of  white  cuffs  and  a  flash  of  red  under- 
clothes. His  necktie  was  a  remarkable  arrange- 
ment of  red  and  blue  silks  mixed  with  brass 
rings.     On   his   head   he  wore   a  large,  gum- 


I. 


JOSEPHINE   LABROSSE. 


109 


:om- 

It 

d  it 


colored,  soft  felt  hat.  He  had  little  gold  ear- 
rings in  his  ears,  and  a  large  ring  on  his  finger. 
As  he  leaned  against  the  wall  he  had  thrust  his 
fingers  into  his  pockets,  and  the  sun  had  eased 
him  into  a  sort  of  gloomy  doze  ;  for  he  knew  he 
had  to  go  to  Madame  Labrosse's  for  dinner,  and 
he  was  not  entirely  willing  to  leave  his  pleasures 
in  the  first  flush  of  their  novelty.  He  had  made 
arrangements  to  break  away  from  the  restraint 
early  in  the  evening,  which  softened  his  dis- 
pleasure somewhat ;  but  when  his  friends  came 
for  him  he  was  loath  to  go. 

How  beautiful  Josephine  had  grown,  how  kind 
that  cousin  was,  and  how  quickly  the  time 
went,  —  now  dinner,  now  tea  ;  and  who  is  this 
that  comes  in  after  tea?  This  is  Victor  Lucier. 
And  who  is  this  that  sits  so  cheerfully,  filling 
half  the  room  with  his  hugeness?  This  is 
Frangois  Xavier  Beaugrand  de  Champagne ;  he 
has  just  returned.  Just  returned  !  Just  returned 
from  where?  What  right  has  he  to  return? 
Who  is  this  Francois  Xavier,  who  returns  sud- 
denly and  fills  the  whole  room  ?  Can  it  be  so  ? 
A  vague  feeling  of  jealousy  springs  up  in  Victor. 
Can  this  be  the  one  of  Josephine's  choosing? 
Yes,  true  it  is  ;  he  calls  her  Jos(§.  Jose^  just  like 
Madame  Labrosse. 

But  he  is  going  now,  and  he  is  very  loath  to 
go ;  but  he  will  be  back  some  day  soon,  and  off 
he  goes.     And  by  and  by  away  goes  Madame 


<>" 


1 1 


1 1 


t  1 
fj ' 


<  >i 


\ 

I 


i 


;  ■;• 


Hi 
■  I'  ■ 


iio    IN   THE  VILLAGE  OF  VIGER. 

Labrosse,  "just  for  a  moment,"  she  says.  They 
are  alone  now  as  they  have  never  been  before. 
Josephine  sits  with  the  blood  coming  into  her 
face,  wondering  what  Victor  will  say.  Victor 
also  wonders  what  he  will  say. 

Josephine's  bird  gives  a  faint,  sleepy  twitter. 
They  both  look  up,  then  he  hops  down  from  his 
perch  and  pecks  at  his  seed-font.  Suddenly  he 
gives  a  few  sharp  cries,  as  if  to  try  his  voice. 
They  both  start  to  their  feet.  Now  he  com- 
mences to  sing.  What  a  burst  of  rapture  !  In 
a  moment  Josephine  is  in  Victor's  arms,  her 
cheek  is  against  the  velvet  coat.  Is  it  her  own 
heart  she  hears,  or  is  it  Victor's?  No  need  of 
words  now.  How  the  bird  sings  !  High  and 
clear  he  shakes  out  his  song  in  a  passionate 
burst,  as  if  all  his  life  were  for  love.  And  they 
seem  to  talk  together  in  sweet  unsaid  words 
until  he  ceases.  Now  they  are  seated  on  the 
sofa,  and  Madame  Labrosse  comes  in. 

"  Josephine  !  " 

"  Mamma,  how  can  I  help  it?  "  and  the  tears 
of  joy  creep  out  on  her  eyelashes. 

Suddenly  the  grandmother,  catching  sight, 
through  her  half-blind  eyes,  of  Victor  and 
Josephine  on  the  so'a,  cries  out  and  menaces 
him  with  her  shrivelled  fist,  when  they  all  rush 
upon  her  with  kisses  and  pacify  her  with  her 
pipe. 

And  now,  what  is  this  noise  that  breaks  the 


i^^ff 


f 


JOSEPHLNE   LABROSSE. 


Ill 


tears 


quiet  ?  It  is  a  wild  song  from  the  street,  echo- 
ing in  the  room.  There  is  a  shout,  and  a  cab 
draws  up  at  the  door.  It  is  Frangois  Xavier, 
returned  for  the  second  time.  He  stands  sway- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  There  is  a 
vinous  lustre  in  his  eyes.  His  coat  is  thrown 
back  from  his  shoulder.  Some  one  has  been 
dancing  on  his  hat,  for  it  is  all  crushed  and 
dusty.  He  mutters  the  words  of  the  song 
which  the  chorus  is  roaring  outside  —  "  C'est 
dans  la  vill'  de  Bytown."  Madame  Labrosse 
implores  him  with  words  to  come  some  other 
time.  Josephine  implores  him  with  her  eyes, 
clinging  to  Victor,  who  has  his  arm  around  her. 
But  Frangois  Xavier  stands  unimpressed.  Sud- 
denly he  makes  an  advance  on  Josephine,  who 
retreats  behind  Victor. 

"Scoundrel!  base  one,"  calls  out  Victor, 
"leave  the  house,  or  I  myself  will  put  you 
out !  "  Francois  Xavier  gazes  for  a  moment 
on  the  little  figure  peering  at  him  so  fiercely 
through  his  spectacles.  Then,  as  the  chorus 
lulls  for  a  moment,  a  smile  of  childish  tender- 
ness mantles  all  his  face,  and  with  the  gesture 
of  a  father  reclaiming  his  long-lost  son  he 
stretches  his  arms  toward  Victor.  He  folds 
him  to  his  breast,  and,  lifting  him  from  the 
floor,  despite  his  struggles  he  carries  him  out 
into  the  night,  where  the  chorus  bursts  out 
anew  — "C'est  dans  la  vill'  de  Bytown." 


\< 


f 


ll«r^ 


t.rt 


IVJ 


I 


m 


112    IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

It  is  late  when  Victor  at  last  escapes,  and 
hears  them  go  roaring  away  as  he  flees,  hat- 
less,  through  the  fields  to  his  home.  It  is  still 
later  when  he  falls  asleep,  overcome  by  excite- 
ment and  the  stimulants  which  have  been 
administered  to  him ;  and  through  his  feverish 
dreams  runs  the  sound  of  singing,  of  Josephine's 
voice,  inexpressibly  sweet  and  tender,  like  the 
voice  of  a  happy  angel,  but  the  song  that  she 
sings  is  —  "C'est  dans  la  vill'  de  Bytown." 


k 


THE   PEDLER. 


^" 


HE  used  to  come  in  the  early  spring-time, 
when,  in  sunny  hollows,  banks  of  coarse 
snow  lie  thawing,  shrinking  with  almost  inaudi- 
ble tinklings,  when  the  upper  grass-banks  are 
covered  thickly  with  the  film  left  by  the  melted 
snow,  when  the  old  leaves  about  the  gray  trees 
are  wet  and  sodden,  when  the  pools  lie  bare 
and  clear,  without  grasses,  very  limpid  with 
snow-water,  when  the  swollen  streams  rush  in- 
solently by,  when  the  grosbeaks  try  the  cedar 
buds  shyly,  and  a  colony  of  little  birds  take  a 
sunny  tree  slope,  and  sing  songs  there. 

He  used  to  come  with  the  awakening  of  life 
in  the  woods,  with  the  strange  cohosh,  and  the 
dog-tooth  violet,  piercing  the  damp  leaf  which 
it  would  wear  as  a  ruff  about  its  neck  in  blos- 
som time.  He  used  to  come  up  the  road  from 
St.  Val(§rie,  trudging  heavily,  bearing  his  packs. 
To  most  of  the  Viger  people  he  seemed  to 
appear  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  street, 
clothed  with  power,  and  surrounded  by  an 
attentive  crowd  of  boys,  and  a  whirling  fringe 
of  dogs,  barking  and  throwing  up  dust. 

8 


I     i\ 


I, 


'iO| 


.1 


114    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


I   I 


If 

♦ 

'      i- 

^ 

m 

I 


lip 


• 


I  speak  of  what  has  become  tradition,  for 
the  pcdler  walks  no  more  up  the  St.  Valerie 
road,  bearing  those  magical  baskets  of  his. 

There  was  something  powerful,  compelling, 
about  him  ;  his  short,  heavy  figure,  his  hair- 
cuvered,  expressionless  face,  the  quick  hands 
in  which  he  seemed  to  weigh  everything  that  he 
touched,  his  voluminous,  indescribable  clothes, 
the  great  umbrella  he  carried  strapped  to  his 
back,  the  green  spectacles  that  hid  his  eyes, 
all  these  commanded  attention.  But  his  powers 
seemed  to  lie  in  those  inscrutable  guards  to  his 
eyes.  They  were  such  goggles  as  are  commonly 
used  by  threshers,  and  were  bound  firmly  about 
his  face  by  a  leather  lace ;  with  their  setting  of 
iron  they  completely  covered  his  eye-sockets, 
not  permitting  a  glimpse  of  those  eyes  that 
seemed  to  glare  out  of  their  depths.  They 
seemed  never  to  have  been  removed,  but  to 
have  grown  there,  rooted  by  time  in  his 
cheek-bones. 

He  carried  a  large  wicker-basket  covered 
with  oiled  cloth,  slung  to  his  shoulder  by  a 
strap ;  in  one  hand  he  carried  a  light  stick,  in 
the  other  a  large  oval  bandbox  of  black  shiny 
cloth.  From  the  initials  *'  J.  F.,"  which  ap- 
peared in  faded  white  letters  on  the  bandbox,  the 
village  people  had  christened  him  Jean-Frangois. 

Coming  into  the  village,  he  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  set  his  bandbox  bet\veen 


THE    PEDLER. 


115 


his  feet,  and  took   the    oiled   cloth    from   the 
basket.     He  never  went  from  house   to   house, 
his  customers  came  to  him.     He   stood   there 
and  sold,  almost  without  a  word,  as  calm  as  a 
sphinx,  and  as  powerful.     There  was  something 
compelling  about  him  ;  the  people  bought  things 
they  did  not  want,  but  they  had  to  buy.     The 
goods  lay  before  them,  the  handkerchiefs,   the 
laces,   the  jewelry,    the    little    sacred    pictures, 
matches  in  colored  boxes,  little  cased  looking- 
glasses,  combs,  mouth-organs,  pins,  and  hair- 
pins ;  and  over  all,  this  figure  with  the  inscru- 
table eyes.     As  he  took  in  the  money  and  made 
change,   he  uttered    the  word,   "Good,"    con- 
tinually,   "good,    good."      There    was'  some- 
thing exciting  in  the  way  he  pronounced   that 
word,  something  that  goaded  the  hearers  into 
extravagance. 

It  happened  one  day  in  April,  when  the 
weather  was  doubtful  and  moody,  and  storms 
flew  low,  scattering  cold  rain,  and  after  that  day 
Jean- Francois,  the  pedler,  was  a  shape  in  mem- 
ory, a  fact  no  longer.  He  was  blown  into  the 
village  unwetted  by  a  shower  that  left  the  streets 
untouched,  and  that  went  through  the  northern 
fields  sharply,  and  lost  itself  in  the  far  woods. 
He  stopped  in  front  of  the  post-office.  The 
Widow  Laroque  slammed  her  door  and  went 
upstairs  to  peep  through  the  curtain;  "these 
pedlers   spoiled    trade,"    she    said,    and    hated 


ii6    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VlGER. 


I: 


f  :■■ 


i 


them  in  consequence.  Soon  a  crowd  collected, 
and  great  talk  arose,  with  laughter  and  some 
jostling.  Every  one  tried  to  see  into  the  basket, 
those  behind  stood  on  tiptoe  and  asked  ques- 
tions, those  in  front  held  the  crowd  back  and 
tried  to  look  at  the  goods.  The  air  was  full 
of  the  staccato  of  surprise  and  admiration.  The 
late  comers  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  com- 
menced to  jostle,  and  somebody  tossed  a  hand- 
ful of  dust  into  the  air  over  the  group.  "  What 
a  wretched  wind,"  cried  some  one,  **  it  blows 
all  ways." 

The  dust  seemed  to  irritate  the  pedler,  be- 
sides, no  one  had  bought  anything.  He  called 
out  sharply,  "  Buy  —  buy."  He  sold  two  papers 
of  hair-pins,  a  little  brass  shrine  of  La  Bonne 
St.  Anne,  a  colored  handkerchief,  a  horn  comb, 
and  a  mouth-organ.  While  these  purchases 
were  going  on,  Henri  Lamoureux  was  eying 
the  litde  red  purses,  and  fingering  a  coin  in  his 
pocket.  The  coin  was  a  doubtful  one,  and  he 
was  weighing  carefully  the  chances  of  passing 
it.  At  last  he  said,  carelessly,  "  How  much  ?  " 
touching  the  purses.  The  pedler's  answer  called 
out  the  coin  from  his  pocket ;  it  lay  in  the  man's 
hand.  Henri  took  the  purse  and  moved  hur- 
riedly back.  At  once  the  pedler  fi^rasped  after 
him,  reaching  as  well  as  his  basket  would  allow ; 
he  caught  him  by  the  coat ;  but  Henri's  dog 
darted  in,  nipped  the  pedler's  leg,  and  got  away, 


THE  PEDLER. 


"7 


showing  his  teeth.  Lamoureux  struggled,  the 
pedler  swore  ;  in  a  moment  every  one  was  jostling 
to  get  out  of  the  way,  wondering  what  was  the 
matter.  As  Henri  swung  his  arm  around  he 
swept  his  hand  across  the  pedler's  eyes;  the 
shoe-string  gave  way,  and  the  green  goggles  fell 
into  the  basket.  Then  a  curious  change  came 
over  the  man.  He  let  his  enemy  go,  and  stood 
dazed  for  a  moment ;  he  passed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  and  in  that  interval  of  quiet  the  people 
saw,  where  they  expected  to  see  flash  the  two 
rapacious  eyes  of  their  imaginings,  only  the 
seared,  fleshy  seams  where  those  eyes  should 
have  been. 

That  was  the  vision  of  a  moment,  for  the 
pedler,  like  a  fiend  in  fury,  threw  up  his  long 
arms  and  cursed  in  a  voice  so  powerful  and  sud- 
den that  the  dismayed  crowd  shrunk  away,  cling- 
ing to  one  another  and  looking  over  their 
shoulders  at  the  violent  figure.  "  God  have 
mercy  !  —  Holy  St.  Anne  protect  us  !  —  He 
curses  his  Baptism  !  "  screamed  the  women.  In 
a  second  he  was  alone ;  the  dog  that  had  assailed 
him  was  snarling  from  under  the  sidewalk,  and 
the  women  were  in  the  nearest  houses.  Henri 
Lamoureux,  in  the  nearest  lane,  stood  pale,  with  a 
stone  in  his  hand.  It  was  only  for  one  moment ; 
in  the  second,  the  pedler  had  gathered  his  things, 
blind  as  he  was,  had  turned  his  back,  and  was 
striding  up  the  street ;  in  the  third,  one  of  the 


\^h 


'  -; 


v 


■  ':  ■ 


IM  I 


•I'    I 


'     M 


ii8    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

sudden  storms  had  gathered  the  dust  at  the  end 
of  the  village  and  came  down  with  it,  driving 
every  one  indoors.  It  shrouded  the  retreating 
figure,  and  a  crack  of  unexpected  thunder  came 
like  a  pistol  shot,  and  then  the  pelting  rain. 

Some  venturesome  souls  who  looked  out  when 
the  storm  was  nearly  over,  declared  they  saw, 
large  on  the  hills,  the  figure  of  the  pedler,  walk- 
ing enraged  in  the  fringes  of  the  storm.  One 
of  these  was  Henri  Lamoureux,  who,  to  this  day, 
has  never  found  the  little  red  purse. 

"  I  would  have  sworn  I  had  it  in  this  hand 
when  he  caught  me ;  but  I  felt  it  fly  away  like  a 
bird." 

"  But  what  made  the  man  curse  every  one  so 
when  you  just  bought  that  little  purse  —  say 
that?" 

"  Well,  I  know  not,  do  you?  Anyway  he  has 
my  quarter,  and  he  was  blind  —  blind  as  a  stone 
fence." 

"  ]^lind  !  Not  he  !  "  cried  the  Widow  La- 
roque.  "  He  was  the  Old  Boy  himself,  I  told 
you  —  it  is  always  as  I  say,  you  see  now  — 
it  was  the  old  Devil  himself." 

However  that  might  be,  there  are  yet  people 
in  Vigor  who,  when  the  dust  blows,  and  a  sharp 
storm  comes  up  from  the  southeast,  see  the 
figure  of  the  enraged  pedler,  large  upon  the  hills, 
striding  violently  along  the  fringes  of  the  storm. 


.1 1-'    } 


PAUL  FARLOTTE. 


NEAR  the  outskirts  of  Viger,  to  the  west,  far 
away  from  the  Blanche,  but  having  a  country 
outlook  of  their  own,  and  a  gUmpse  of  a  shadowy 
range  of  hills,  stood  two  houses  which  would 
have  attracted  attention  by  their  contrast,  if  for 
no  other  reason.     One  was  a  low  cottage,  sur- 
rounded by  a  garden,  and  covered  with  roses, 
which  formed  jalousies  for  the  encircling  veran- 
da.    The  garden  was  laid  out  with  the  care  and 
completeness  that  told  of  a  master  hand.     The 
cottage  itself  had  the  air  of  having  been  secured 
from  the  inroads  of  time  as  thoroughly  as  paint 
and  a  nail  in  the  right  place  at  the  right  time 
could  effect  that  end.     The  other  was  a  large 
gaunt-looking  house,  narrow  and  high,  with  many 
windows,  some  of  which  were  boarded  up,  as  if 
there  was  no  further  use  for  the  chambers  into 
which  they  had  once  admitted   light.     Standing 
on  a  rough  piece  of  ground  it  seemed  given  over 
to  the  rudeness  of  decay.     It  appeared  to  have 
been   the  intention  of  its  builder  to  veneer  it 
with  brick  ;  but  it  stood  there  a  wooden  shell, 
discolored    by    the  weather,  disjointed  by  the 
frost,  and  with  the  wind  fluttering  the  rags  of 


I 


{;  ! 


4  I 


(\i 


h^ 


120    IN  THE   VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 


Ill 


iVi: 


tar-paper  which  had  been  intended  as  a  pro- 
tection against  the  cold,  but  which  now  hung 
in  patches  and  ribbons.  But  despite  this  dilapi- 
dation it  had  a  sort  of  martial  air  about  it, 
and  seemed  to  watch  over  its  embowered  com- 
panion, warding  off  tempests  and  gradually  fall- 
ing to  pieces  on  guard,  like  a  faithful  soldier 
who  suffers  at  his  post.  In  the  road,  just  be- 
tween the  two,  stood  a  beautiful  Lombardy  poplar. 
Its  shadow  fell  upon  the  little  cottage  in  the 
morning,  and  travelled  across  the  garden,  and  in 
the  evening  touched  the  corner  of  the  tall  house, 
and  faded  out  with  the  sun,  only  to  float  there 
again  in  the  moonlight,  or  to  commence  the 
journey  next  morning  with  the  dawn.  This 
shadow  seemed,  with  its  constant  movenicnt,  to 
figure  the  connection  that  existed  between  the 
two  houses. 

The  garden  of  the  cottage  was  a  marvel ; 
there  the  finest  roses  in  the  parish  grew,  roses 
which  people  came  miles  to  see,  and  parterres 
of  old-fashioned  flowers,  the  seed  of  v.hich 
came  from  France,  and  which  in  consequence 
seemed  to  blow  with  a  rarer  color  and  more 
delicate  perfume.  This  garden  was  a  striking 
contrast  to  the  stony  ground  about  the  neigh- 
boring house,  where  only  the  commonest 
weeds  grew  unregarded ;  but  its  master  had 
been  born  a  gardener,  just  as  another  man  is 
born  a  mnsician  or  a  poet.     There  was  a  super- 


PAUL   FARLOTTE. 


121 


stition  in  the  village  that  all  he  had  to  do  was 
to  put  anything,  even  a  dry  stick,  into  the 
ground,  and  it  would  grow.  He  was  the  village 
schoolmaster,  and  Madame  Laroque  would 
remark  spitefully  enough  that  if  Monsieur  Paul 
Farlotte  had  been  as  successful  in  planting 
knowledge  in  the  heads  of  his  scholars  as  he 
was  in  planting  roses  in  his  garden  Viger  would 
have  been  celebrated  the  world  over.  But  he 
was  born  a  gardener,  not  a  teacher ;  and  he 
made  the  best  of  the  fate  which  compelled  him 
to  depend  for  his  living  on  something  he  dis- 
liked. He  looked  almost  as  dry  as  one  of  his 
own  hyacinth  bulbs ;  but  like  it  he  had  life  at 
his  heart.  He  was  a  very  small  man,  and  frail, 
and  looked  older  than  he  was.  It  was  strange, 
but  you  rarely  seemed  to  see  his  face  ;  for  he 
was  bent  with  weeding  and  digging,  and  it 
seemed  an  effort  for  him  to  raise  his  head  and 
look  at  you  with  the  full  glance  of  his  eye. 
But  when  he  did,  you  saw  the  eye  was  honest 
and  full  of  light.  He  was  not  careful  of  his 
personal  appearance,  clinging  to  his  old  gar- 
ments with  a  fondness  which  often  laid  him 
open  to  ridicule,  which  he  was  willing  to  bear 
for  the  sake  of  the  comfort  of  an  old  pair  of 
shoes,  or  a  hat  which  had  accommodated  itself 
to  the  irregularities  of  his  head.  On  the  street 
he  wore  a  curious  skirt-coat  that  seemed  to  be 
made  of  some  indestructible  material,  for  he 


1: 

II  : 


■M^ 


122    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


I 


II 


■;  / 


had  worn  it  for  years,  and  might  be  buried  in 
it.  It  received  an  extra  brush  for  Sundays  and 
holidays,  and  ahvays  looked  as  good  as  new. 
He  made  a  quaint  picture,  as  he  came  down 
the  road  from  the  school.  He  had  a  hesitating 
walk,  and  constantly  stopped  and  looked  behind 
him ;  for  he  always  fancied  he  heard  a  voice 
calling  him  by  his  name.  He  would  be  work- 
ing in  his  flower-beds  when  he  would  hear  it 
over  his  shoulder,  "  Paul ;  "  or  when  he  went 
to  draw  water  from  his  well,  *'  Paul ;  "  or  when 
he  was  reading  by  his  fire,  some  one  calling  him 
softly,  *'  Paul,  Paul ;  "  or  in  the  dead  of  night, 
when  nothing  moved  in  his  cottage  he  would 
hear  it  out  of  the  dark,  "  Paul."  So  it  came  to 
be  a  sort  of  companionship  for  him,  this  haunt- 
ing voice ;  and  sometimes  one  could  have  seen 
him  in  his  garden  stretch  out  his  hand  and 
smile,  as  if  he  were  welcoming  an  invisible 
guest.  Sometimes  the  guest  was  not  invisible, 
but  took  body  and  shape,  and  was  a  real  pres- 
ence ;  and  often  Paul  was  greeted  with  visions 
of  things  that  had  been,  or  that  would  be,  and 
saw  figures  where,  for  other  eyes,  hung  only  the 
impalpable  air. 

He  had  one  other  passion  besides  his  garden, 
and  that  was  Montaigne.  He  delved  in  one  in 
the  summer,  in  the  other  in  the  winter.  With  his 
feet  on  his  stove  he  would  become  so  absorbed 
with  his  author  that  he  would  burn  his  slippers 


PAUL   FARLOTTE. 


123 


and  come  to  himself  disturbed  by  the  smell  of  the 
singed  leather.  He  had  only  one  great  ambition, 
that  was  to  return  to  France  to  see  his  mother 
before  she  died ;  and  he  had  for  years  been  try- 
ing to  save  enough  money  to  take  the  journey. 
People  who  did  not  know  him  called  him 
stingy,  and  said  the  saving  for  his  journey  was 
only  a  pretext  to  cover  his  miserly  habits.  It 
was  strange,  he  had  been  saving  for  years,  and 
yet  he  had  not  saved  enough.  Whenever  any- 
one would  ask  him,  "  Well,  Monsieur  Farlotte, 
when  do  you  go  to  France?  "  he  would  answer, 
"Next  year — next  year."  So  when  he  an- 
nounced one  spring  that  he  was  actually  going, 
and  when  people  saw  that  he  was  not  making 
his  garden  with  his  accustomed  care,  it  became 
the  talk  of  the  village  :  "  Monsieur  Farlotte  is 
going  to  France  ;  "  "  Monsieur  Farlotte  has 
saved  enough  money,  true,  true,  he  is  going  to 
France." 

His  proposed  visit  gave  no  one  so  much 
pleasure  as  it  gave  his  neighbors  in  the  gaunt, 
unkempt  house  which  seemed  to  watch  over  his 
own ;  and  no  one  would  have  imagined  what  a 
joy  it  was  to  Marie  St.  Denis,  the  tall  girl  who 
was  mother  to  her  orphan  brothers  and  sisters, 
to  hear  Monsieur  Farlotte  say,  "  When  I  am  in 
France  ;  "  for  she  knew  what  none  of  the  villagers 
knew,  that,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  and  her 
troubles,   Monsieur    Farlotte   would  have  seen 


1 


;  Si 


it 


t 


i 

) 

1   ■ 

1 

m»     • 

'■\"- 

1  3 

1 

flt. 

si 

■L 

124    IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF  VIGER. 

France  many  years  before.  How  often  she 
would  recall  the  time  when  her  father,  who  was 
in  the  employ  of  the  great  match  factory  near 
Viger,  used  to  drive  about  collecting  the  little 
paper  match-boxes  which  were  made  by  hun- 
dreds of  women  in  the  village  and  the  country 
around ;  how  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
making  a  machine  in  which  a  strip  of  paper 
would  go  in  at  one  end,  and  the  completed 
match-boxes  would  fall  out  at  the  other;  how 
he  had  given  up  his  situation  and  devoted  his 
whole  time  and  energy  to  the  invention  of  this 
machine ;  how  he  had  failed  time  and  again, 
but  continued  with  a  perseverance  which  at  last 
became  a  frantic  passion ;  and  how,  to  keep  the 
family  together,  her  mother,  herself,  and  the 
children  ioined  that  army  of  workers  which  was 
making  the  match-boxes  by  hand.  She  would 
think  of  what  would  have  happened  to  them 
then  if  Monsieur  Farlotte  had  not  been  there 
with  his  help,  or  what  would  have  happened 
when  her  mother  died,  worn  out,  and  her 
father,  overcome  with  disappointment,  gave  ip 
his  life  and  his  task  together,  in  despair.  But 
whenever  she  would  try  to  speak  of  these  things 
Monsieur  Farlotte  would  prevent  her  with  a 
gesture,  "Well,  but  what  would  you  have  me 
do,  —  besides,  I  will  go  some  day,  —  now  who 
knows,  next  year,  perhaps."  So  here  was  the 
"  nf;xt  year,"  which  she  had  so  longed  to  see, 


PAUL  FARLOTTE. 


"5 


and  Monsieur  Farlotte  was  giving  her  a  daily 
lecture  on  how  to  treat  the  tulips  after  they  had 
done  flowering,  preluding  everything  he  had  to 
say  with,  "  When  I  am  in  France,"  for  his  heart 
was  already  there. 

He  had  two  places  to  visit,  one  was  his  old 
home,  the  other  was  the  birthplace  of  his  beloved 
Montaigne.  He  had  often  described  to  Marie 
the  little  cottage  where  he  was  born,  with  the 
vine  arbors  and  the  long  garden  walks,  the 
lilac-bushes,  with  their  cool  dark-green  leaves, 
the  white  eaves  where  the  swallows  nested,  and 
the  poplar,  sentinel  over  all.  "  You  see,"  he 
would  say,  "  I  have  tried  to  make  this  little 
place  like  it;  and  my  memory  may  have  played 
me  a  trick,  but  I  often  fancy  myself  at  home. 
That  poplar  and  this  long  walk  and  the  vines  on 
the  arbor,  —  sometimes  when  I  see  the  tuhps 
by  the  border  I  fancy  it  is  all  in  France." 

Marie  was  going  over  his  scant  wardrobe, 
mending  with  her  skilful  fingers,  putting  a  stitch 
in  the  trusty  old  coat,  and  securing  its  buttons. 
She  was  anxious  that  Monsieur  Farlotte  should 
get  a  new  suit  before  he  went  on  his  journey ; 
but  he  would  not  hear  to  it.  *'  Not  a  bit  of  it," 
he  would  say,  "  if  I  made  my  appearance  in  a 
new  suit,  they  would  think  I  had  been  making 
money;  and  when  they  would  find  out  that  I 
had  not  enough  to  buy  cabbage  for  the  soup 
there  would  be  a  disappointment."      She  could 


5 

1 


i 


\f 


} 


!* 


126    IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

not  get  him  to  write  that  he  was  coming.  "  No, 
no,"  he  would  say,  *'  if  I  do  that  they  will  expect 
me."  **\Vell,  and  why  not,  —  why  not?" 
"  Well,  they  would  think  about  it,  —  in  ten  days 
Paul  comes  home,  then  ii  ve  days  Paul  comes 
home,  and  then  when  I  came  they  would  set  the 
dogs  on  me.  No,  I  will  just  walk  in,  —  so,  — 
and  when  they  are  staring  at  my  old  coat  I  will 
just  sit  down  in  a  corner,  and  my  old  mother 
will  commence  to  cry.  Oh,  I  have  it  all 
arranged." 

So  Marie  let  him  have  his  own  way ;  but  she 
was  fixed  on  having  her  way  in  some  things. 
To  save  Monsieur  Farlotte  the  heavier  work, 
and  allow  him  to  keep  his  strength  for  the  jour- 
ney, she  would  make  her  brother  Guy  do  the 
spading  in  the  garden,  much  to  his  disgust,  and 
that  of  Monsieur  Farlotte,  who  would  stand  by 
and  interfere,  taking  the  spade  into  his  own 
hands  with  infinite  satisfaction.  "  See,"  he 
would  say,  "  go  deeper  and  turn  it  over  so." 
And  when  Guy  would  dig  in  his  own  clumsy 
way,  he  would  go  off  in  despair,  with  the  words, 
"  God  help  us,  nothing  will  grow  there." 

When  Monsieur  Farlotte  insisted  on  taking 
his  clothes  in  an  old  box  covered  with  raw- 
hide, with  his  initials  in  bras«  tacks  on  the 
cover,  Marie  would  not  consent  to  it,  and  made 
Guy  carry  off  the  box  without  his  knowledge 
and  hide  it.     She  had  a  good  tin  trunk  which 


^m 


mm 


PAUL   FARLOTTE. 


127 


had  belonged  to  her  mother,  which  she  knew 
where  to  find  in  the  attic,  and  which  would  con- 
tain everything  Monsieur  Farlotte  had  to  carry. 
Poor  Marie  never  went  into  this  attic  without  a 
shudder,  for  occupying  most  of  the  space  was 
her  father's  work  bench,  and  that  complicated 
wheel,  the  model  of  his  invention,  which  he  had 
tried  so  hard  to  perfect,  and  which  stood  there 
like  a  monument  of  his  failure.  She  had  made 
Guy  promise  never  to  move  it,  fearing  lest  he 
might  be  tempted  to  finish  what  his  father  had 
begun, — a  fear  that  was  almost  an  apprehen- 
sion, so  like  him  was  he  growing.  He  was  tall 
and  large-boned,  with  a  dark  restless  eye,  set 
under  an  overhanging  forehead.  He  had  long 
arms,  out  of  proportion  to  his  height,  and  he 
hung  his  head  when  he  walked.  His  likeness 
to  his  father  made  him  seem  a  man  before  his 
time.  He  felt  himself  a  man  ;  for  he  had  a  good 
position  in  the  match  factory,  and  was  like  a 
father  to  his  little  brothers  and  sisters. 

Although  the  model  had  always  had  a  strange 
fascination  for  him,  the  lad  had  kept  his  promise 
to  his  sister,  and  had  never  touched  the  mechan- 
ism which  had  literally  taken  his  father's  life. 
Often  when  he  went  into  the  attic  he  would 
stand  and  gaze  at  the  model  and  wonder  why  it 
had  not  succeeded,  and  recall  his  father  bending 
over  his  work,  with  his  compass  and  pencil. 
But  he  had  a  dread  of  it  too,  and  sometimes 


128    IN    THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


li; 


11 


would  hurry  away,  afraid  lest  its  fascination 
would  conquer  him. 

Monsieur  Farlotte  was  to  leave  as  soon  as 
his  school  closed,  but  weeks  before  that  he  had 
everything  ready,  and  could  enjoy  his  roses  in 
peace.  After  school  hours  he  would  walk  in 
his  garden,  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  and  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground,  meditating;  and  once  in  a  while  he 
would  pause  and  smile,  or  look  over  his  shoulder 
when  the  haunting  voice  would  call  his  name. 
His  scholars  had  commenced  to  view  him  with 
additional  interest,  now  that  he  was  going  to 
take  such  a  prodigious  journey ;  and  two  or  three 
of  them  could  always  be  seen  peering  through 
the  palings,  watching  him  as  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  path ;  and  Marie  would  watch  him 
too,  and  wonder  what  he  would  say  when  he 
found  that  his  trunk  had  disappeared.  He 
missed  it  fully  a  month  before  he  could  expect 
to  start ;  but  he  had  resolved  to  pack  that  very 
evening. 

"  But  there  is  plenty  of  time,"  remonstrated 
Marie. 

"That's  always  the  way,**  he  answered. 
"Would  you  expect  me  to  leave  everything 
until  the  last  moment?" 

"  But,  Monsieur  Farlotte,  in  ten  minutes 
everything  goes  into  the  trunk." 

"  So,  and  in  the  same  ten  minutes  something  is 


:< 


PAUL  FARLOTTE. 


129 


left  out  of  the  trunk,  and  I  am  in  France,  and 
my  shoes  are  in  Viger,  that  will  be  the  end  of  it." 
So,  to  pacify   him,  she   had  to  ask  Guy   to 
bring    down    the    trunk    from    the    attic.      It 
was  not   yet    dark    there;    the  sunset  threw  a 
great   color   into   the   room,    touching   all   the 
familiar   objects   with    transfiguring    light,    and 
giving  the  shadows  a  rich  depth.     Guy  saw  the 
model  glowing  like  some  magic  golden  wheel, 
the  metal  points  upon  it  gleaming  like  jewels  in 
the  light.     As   he  passed    he   touched  it,  and 
with  a  musical  click  something  dropped  from  it. 
He  picked  it  up  :  it  was  one  of  the  litde  paper 
match-boxes,  but  the  defect  that  he  remembered 
to  have  heard  talked  of  was  there.     He  held  it  in 
his  hand  and  examined  it;    then  he  pulled  it 
apart   and   spread  it  out.     "Ah,"  he   said  to 
himself,  "  the  fault  was  in  the  cutting."     Then 
he  turned  the  wheel,  and  one  by  one  the  imper- 
fect boxes  dropped  out,  until  the  strip  of  paper 
was  exhausted.    "  But  why,"  —  the  question  rose 
in  his  mind,  —  "  why  could  not  that  little  diffi- 
culty be  overcoTne?" 

He  took  the  trunk  down  to  Marie,  who  at 
last  persuaded  Monsieur  Farlotte  to  let  her 
pack  his  clothes  in  it.  He  did  so  with  a  pro- 
testation, "  Well,  I  know  how  it  will  be  with  a 
fine  box  like  that,  some  fellow  will  whip  it  off 
when  I  am  looking  the  other  way,  and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  it." 


^^^ 


130    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


As  soon  as  he  could  do  so  without  attracting 
Marie's  attention  (iuy  returned  to  the  attic  with 
a  lamp.  When  Marie  had  finished  packing 
Monsieur  Farlotte's  wardrobe,  she  went  home 
to  put  her  children  to  bed  ;  but  when  she  saw 
that  light  in  the  attic  window  she  nearly  fainted 
from  apprehension.  \\'hen  she  pushed  open 
the  door  of  that  room  which  she  had  entered  so 
often  with  the  scant  meals  she  used  to  bring 
her  father,  she  saw  Guy  bending  over  the  model, 
examining  every  part  of  it.  "  Guy,"  she  said, 
trying  to  command  her  voice,  "  you  have 
broken  your  promise."  He  looked  up  quickly. 
"  Marie,  I  am  going  to  find  it  out  —  I  can 
understand  it  —  there  is  just  one  thing,  if  I  can 
get  that  we  will  make  a  fortune  out  of  it."  . 

"Guy,  don't  delude  yourself;  those  were 
father's  words,  and  day  after  day  I  brought  him 
his  meals  here,  when  he  was  too  busy  even  to 
come  downstairs ;  but  nothing  came  of  it,  and 
while  he  was  trying  to  make  a  machine  for  the 
boxes,  we  were  making  them  with  our  fingers. 
O  Guy,"  she  cried,  with  her  voice  rising  into 
a  sob,  "  remember  those  days,  remember  what 
Monsieur  Farlotte  did  for  us,  and  what  he  would 
have  to  do  again  if  you  lost  your  place  !  '* 

"  That 's  all  nonsense,  Marie.  Two  weeks 
will  do  it,  and  after  that  I  could  send  Monsieur 
Farlotte  home  with  a  pocket  full  of  gold." 

"Guy,  you  are  making  a  terrible   mistake. 


PAUL   FARLOn^E. 


131 


That  wheel  was  our  curse,  and  it  will  follow 
us  if  you  don't  leave  it  alone.  And  think  of 
Monsieur  Farlotte ;  if  he  finds  out  what  you 
are  working  at  he  will  not  go  to  P'rance  —  I 
know  him  ;  he  will  believe  it  his  duty  to  stay 
here  and  help  us,  as  he  did  when  father  was 
alive.     Guy,  Guy,  listen  to  me  !" 

But  Guy  was  bending  over  the  model,  ab- 
sorbed in  its  labyrinths.  In  vain  did  Marie 
argue  with  him,  try  to  persuade  him,  and 
threaten  him  ;  she  attempted  to  lock  the  attic 
door  and  keep  him  out,  but  he  twisted  the  lock 
off,  and  after  that  the  door  was  always  open. 
Then  she  resolved  to  break  the  wheel  into  a 
thousand  pieces ;  but  when  she  went  upstairs, 
when  Guy  was  away,  she  could  not  strike  it 
with  the  axe  she  held.  It  seemed  like  a 
human  thing  that  cried  out  with  a  hundred 
tongues  against  the  murder  she  would  do;  and 
she  could  only  sink  down  sobbing,  and  pray. 
Then  failing  everything  else  she  simulated  an 
interest  in  the  thing,  and  tried  to  lead  Guy  to 
work  at  it  moderately,  and  not  to  give  up  his 
whole  time  to  it. 

But  he  seemed  to  take  up  his  father's  passion 
where  he  had  laid  it  down.  Marie  could  do 
nothing  with  him  ;  and  the  younger  children,  at 
first  hanging  around  the  attic  door,  as  if  he 
were  their  father  come  back  again,  gradually 
ventured  into  the  room,  and  whispered  together 


132    IN   THE  VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 


;■  f 


as  they  watched  their  wrapt  and  unobservant 
brotner    working    at    his    task.      Marie's   one 
thought  was  to  devise  a  means  of  keeping  the 
fact  from  Monsieur  Farlotte ;  and  she  told  him 
blankly  that  Guy  had  been  sent  away  on  busi- 
ness, and  would  not   be  back    for  six  weeks. 
She  hoped  that  by  that  time  Monsieur  Farlotte 
would  be  safely  started  on  his  journey.     But 
night  after  night  he  saw  a  light  in   the   attic 
window.     In  the  past  years  it  had  been  con- 
stant there,  and  he  could  only  connect  it  with 
one  cause.     But  he  could  get  no  answer  from 
Marie  when  he  asked  her  the  reason ;  and  the 
next  night  the  distracted  girl  draped  the  win- 
dow so  that  no  ray  of  light  could  find  its  way 
out  into  the  night.     But  Monsieur  Farlotte  was 
not  satisfied  ;  and  a  few  evenings  afterwards,  as 
it  was  growing  dusk,  he  went  quietly  into  the 
house,  and  upstairs  into  the  attic.     There  he 
saw  Guy  stretched  along  the  work   bench,  his 
head  in  his  hands,  using  the  last  light  to  ponder 
over  a  sketch  he  was  making,  and  beside  him, 
figured  very  clearly  in  the  thick  gold  air  of  the 
sunset,  the   form  of  his  father,    bending   over 
him,  with  the  old  eager,  haggard  look  in  his 
eyes.      Monsieur    Farlotte    watched    the    two 
figures  for  a  moment  as  they  glowed  in  their 
rich  atmosphere ;   then   the  apparition   turned 
his  head  slowly,  and  warned  him  away  with  a 
motion  of  his  hand. 


'■Mx:  0^ 


PAUL  FARLOrrE. 


133 


All  night  long  Monsieur  Farlotte  walked  in 
his  garden,  patient  and  undisturbed,  fixing  his 
duty  so  that  nothing  could  root  it  out.  He 
found  the  comfort  that  comes  to  those  who  give 
up  some  exceeding  deep  desire  of  the  heart, 
and  when  next  morning  the  market-gardener 
from  St.  Vale'rie,  driving  by  as  the  matin  bell 
was  clanging  from  St.  Joseph's,  and  seeing  the 
old  teacher  as  if  he  were  taking  an  early  look 
at  his  growing  roses,  asked  him,  "Well,  Mon- 
sieur Farlotte,  when  do  you  go  to  France  ?  "  he 
was  able  to  answer  cheerfully,  "Next  year  — 
next  year." 

Marie  could  not  unfix  his  determination. 
"  No,'*  he  said,  "  they  do  not  expect  me.  No 
one  will  be  disappointed.  I  am  too  old  to  travel. 
I  might  be  lost  in  the  sea.  Until  Gay  makes 
his  invention  we  must  not  be  apart." 

At  first  the  villagers  thought  that  he  was 
only  joking,  and  that  they  would  some  morn- 
ing wake  ap  and  find  him  gone ;  but  when  the 
holidays  came,  and  when  enough  time  had 
elapsed  for  him  to  make  his  journey  twice  over 
they  began  to  think  he  was  in  earnest.  When 
they  knew  that  Guy  St.  Denis  was  chained  to 
his  father's  invention,  and  when  they  saw  that 
Marie  and  the  children  had  commenced  to 
rrake  match-boxes  again,  they  shook  their  heads. 
Some  of  them  at  least  seemed  to  understand 
why  Monsieur  Farlotte  had  not  gone  to  France. 


^ 


1 


134    IN   THE   VILLAGE   OF   VIGER. 

But  he  never  repined.  He  took  up  his  gar- 
den again,  was  as  contented  as  ever,  and  com- 
forted himself  with  the  wisdom  of  Montaigne. 
The  people  dropped  the  old  question,  "  When 
are  you  going  to  France?"  Only  his  com- 
panion voice  called  him  more  loudly,  and  more 
often  he  saw  figures  in  the  air  that  no  one  else 
could  see. 

Early  one  morning,  as  he  was  working  in  his 
garden  around  a  growing  pear-tree,  he  fell  into 
a  sort  of  stupor,  and  sinking  down  quietly  on 
his  knees  he  leaned  against  the  slender  stem 
for  support.  He  saw  a  garden  much  like  his 
own,  flooded  with  the  clear  sunlight,  in  the 
shade  of  an  arbor  an  old  woman  in  a  white  cap 
was  leaning  back  in  a  wheeled  chair,  her  eyes 
were  closed,  she  seemed  asleep.  A  young 
woman  was  seated  beside  her  holding  her  hand. 
Suddenly  the  old  woman  smiled,  a  childish 
smile,  as  if  she  were  well  pleased.  "  Paul," 
she  murmured,  "  Paul,  Paul."  A  moment  later 
her  companion  started  up  with  a  cry ;  but  she 
did  not  move,  she  was  silent  and  tranquil. 
Then  the  young  woman  fell  on  her  knees  and 
wept,  hiding  her  face.  But  the  aged  face  was 
inexpressibly  calm  in  the  shadow,  with  the 
smile  lingering  upon  it,  fixed  by  the  deeper 
sleep  into  which  she  had  fallen. 

Gradurdly  the  vision  faded  away,  and  Paul 
Farlotte  found  himself  leaning  against  his  pear- 


PAUL  FARLOTTE. 


135 


tree,  which  was  ahuost  too  young  as  yet  to 
support  his  weight.  The  bell  was  ringing  from 
St.  Joseph's,  and  had  shaken  the  swallows  from 
their  nests  in  the  steeple  into  the  clear  air. 
He  heard  their  cries  as  they  flew  into  his  garden, 
and  he  heard  the  voices  of  his  neighbor  chil- 
dren as  they  played  around  the  house. 

Later  in  the  day  he  told  Marie  chat  his 
mother  had  died  that  morning,  and  she  won- 
dered how  he  knew. 


THE    END. 


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